


An English Jazz Player in Chicago

by alyxpoe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1920s Chicago, AU, F/M, Gen, Jazz Music, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sex, men kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-16 13:01:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yes, sir. I am Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock doesn’t seem to know what to say next as his tongue has turned into glue and his heart is now residing somewhere on the floor next to his feet. He wants this so badly and here he’s gone and botched it up right from the beginning</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Blue Room

**Author's Note:**

> Once again I will warn you that while this story begins in Chicago circa 1925, there are times when I must take leaps across the great chasms of my knowledge and I am sure I’ve made some mistakes along the way. I will try hard to stay within the framework of this time period; and I hope you will enjoy reading my little stories as much as I enjoy writing them. Without readers there are no bestsellers, no “really good books” and certainly no fanfiction!

 

> THE BLUE ROOM  
>  _We'll have a blue room,_  
>  _A new room,_  
>  _For two room,_  
>  _Where ev'ry day's a holiday…._  
>  _Where I can smoke my pipe away_  
>  _With your head upon my knee_.
> 
>  

 

> -Lorenz Hart

* * *

**T** he tall young man stands staring up at the nude grey granite figurine of the god Apollo over the arched doors of the club. His eyes wander along the painstakingly cut muscular structure of the god as he shifts the violin case in his hand. He doesn’t really buy into any types of superstition though if there _were_ one god whose powers he would wish for at this very moment, this one could not be more fitting. Several cars rumble down the pavement behind him: two couples about his age laughing and smoking. One of the women turns his way and raises a hand in greeting at the lone figure. He pretends not to see them.  The woman closes her plump red lips around a long cigarette and laughs as the car moves past. He rests his gaze back on Apollo and gives in to just a tiny bit of hope. It has been far too long a journey for things to go pear-shaped now. He doesn’t have much money left after all the traveling, and so his future hopes pretty much hinge on this one moment, this one gig.

He paces just a little in front of the massive building. He tries to be interested in the blue sky above, full of white, fluffy clouds but he cannot focus on one thing for too long, mostly due to the new clothes he donned this morning. The air is crisp, not quite as cool as it was when he left London, but still enough to wear an overcoat. His new grey pinstriped suit is a bit uncomfortable and he tries not to think about it; it will certainly be worth the irritation if he gets the gig. He just begins to sigh with impatience when the coppery colored doors are opened from the inside by a dark-skinned doorman in a well-pressed black suit complete with spats. As the musician strolls casually into the wide hallway, he unbuttons his coat with the hand not carrying the violin case. The doorman looks up at him and offers a wide smile.

“Your coat, sir?” The shorter man asks, holding out his hands for said garment. The young musician carefully lays the short wool coat across the doorman’s arms. He gives a soft little nod seems to float down the hall towards the coat closet, leaving the musician alone. The young man takes stock of the room about him and quickly pronounces it quite boring indeed under his breath. The walls are all papered in the same flat cream color; it travels all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. The wooden floor he stands on has been waxed to within an inch of its life. He turns in a small circle, realizing that this is one of the dance floors. The soles of his new shoes actually squeak against the layers of wax. It makes him secretly a little giddy as the idea that he is finally here starts to sink in. Sometimes it seems as if he has waited every single of his twenty years to get to this point. He realizes that he is still holding the violin case and searches about for somewhere to get comfortable. He paces across the floor perhaps with a little enthusiasm, liking the way his feet slide easily over the surface.

He does a little impromptu tap dance in a circle, checking to make sure that he really is alone. After a moment that loses its appeal as well. The whole long trip is starting to catch up to him. He was lucky that his family had pulled some strings to get him on the airplane, because he never would have been able to afford it on his own. Of course, he thought while a slight smirk played over his lips, it was always better to have the black sheep out of the fold when important dignitaries were arriving at the manor. He did not begrudge them; he certainly has more singular aspirations that sitting at home fawning over his brother’s ridiculous sham of an engagement to the latest in a string of debutantes that never seem to last long once they meet the family.

There are no chairs in which to sit so he slouches a little into a more comfortable position against the wall and sets the violin case on the floor. He starts to reach up to the back of his head and run his fingers through his hair but then stops, remembering that he took the time to use the tonic before he left his hotel room that morning. He finally allows himself to sigh as his hands rummage through his pockets. He pulls a square pack and starts to remove one of the cigarettes, his other hand coming up with a matchbook that had been in his pocket since London. He slides the cigarette between his lips and has just struck a match when a voice calls out to him. He stares at the spark of orange on the match before shaking it out then stuffing the used piece back into his pocket.

“Are you the Holmes cat?” A rather jovial man wearing a white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to showcase his muscular arms is trotting in his direction. He holds out a large hand.

“Yes, sir. I am Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock doesn’t seem to know what to say next as his tongue has turned into glue and his heart is now residing somewhere on the floor next to his feet. He wants this so badly and here he’s gone and botched it up right from the beginning. But the black man is laughing and giving him a good slap on the back. He stands back and sizes Sherlock up, giving a long, low whistle at the new suit.

“I’m Lonny Orinson, but hip cats such as yourself can just call me Lonny.” Lonny smiles again as Sherlock bends to pick up his violin case. “This way, Mr. Holmes.” Lonny leads the way into a smaller room that is, in a word, blue. The carpet is a sky blue while the walls are papered in a blue shade so light its almost white. Sapphire blue drapes with heavy gold brocade cover large floor-to-ceiling windows.

Four musicians are seated in tall stools with their instruments around a small polished ebony stage in the center of several chairs. No music stands or sheet music is in evidence. Lonny introduces each one in turn, even telling Sherlock where each of them are from. “This is Aaron, he’s from Louisiana.” Lonny says it like “Loose-ee-anna,” Sherlock notes, as he introduces a tall, thin man holding a trumpet. “Next is Andrew, from here in Chicago.” Andrew, the piano player, nods his head in Sherlock’s direction.

“Now meet Charlie, our drummer, from New York City.” Charlie flashes an ultra-shiny grin at Sherlock as he makes a single tap on his drum with a bright red drumstick. “And this fine young lady is Mollie Bess, she’s also from New York.” Mollie holds up her clarinet in greeting.

“’Course you already know me, I’m Lonny and I’ll be lead vocals when we have ‘em, and this here is Trixie.” Lonny picks up an old banjo from the stool that serves as his seat. He presents it to Sherlock who has to set down the violin case first. Lonny snatches the case off the floor as Sherlock is plucking at the banjo strings with his long fingers. He runs up a scale and only when he finishes the last note does he realize that the musicians have all gone completely quiet. Sherlock’s eyes flick up from the instrument in his hands to the stunned faces of the jazz players.

Once again, Lonny lets out a long, low whistle. “Where did you come by this beauty, young man?”

Lonny was holding Sherlock’s violin like a precious artifact straight from King Tut’s tomb. Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders. He and Lonny switched instruments. Sherlock fiddled with the violin for a moment but then just stood still, unsure of whether to join them.

Lonny seemed to shake off his wonder when he realized that Sherlock didn’t want to talk about the priceless family heirloom that had accompanied him across the pond. He offered another big smile in Sherlock’s direction, waving him towards an empty stool. “Alright then,” he said as an introduction to the other players, “This young cat here is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, straight from London. He wants to sit in with us and learn with jazz is all here in the blue room.”

Lonny meets each of the other musicians’ eyes with his own. Seeing no argument from any of them, he gives them some instructions. Charlie picks up a slow and steady beat while the others pick up one at a time. Sherlock nods in time but does not play. Lonny gives him a little wink and states: “Jazz comes from your soul. If you get that, you’ll do alright.” Lonny taps his foot against the stool and then proceeds to jump into the melody. He plays a happy tune, the notes seeming to be sparks under his fingers. They all finish together with a bit of a flourish from Andrew. They all laugh as though the music tickles their souls.  It’s an interesting combination of notes and styles; Sherlock thinks he can get it. He says as much to Lonny.

“Alright, cat, I’ll give you a chance to get into the swing of it all. Miss Mollie here will give us some lyrics and you pop in when you think you’ve got a handle on it.”

Mollie steps to the front of the stage, allowing Sherlock to take her stool. Once again, Charlie taps out a beat, Andrew follows him with a melody and Lonny plucks out the accompaniment. The music winds about them for a time until Mollie starts to sing in a breathy, smoky voice.

_We’ll have a holiday_

_A little fun away_

_Just you and me_

_The boardwalk honey_

_Let’s just get away_

Sherlock moves right into the tune after a giddy little blast from the trumpet. Suddenly, no one else except for himself and Lonny are playing. Even Mollie has stopped singing. They are all listening to the steady stream of notes pouring from the violin with the banjo racing beside. It’s so much like a horse race that no one is sure what the outcome will be. Lonny picks a little faster, Sherlock’s bow races over the catgut. They are both smiling as the stand up in unison from their stools. They have completely taken over the entire piece. When they finally stop Andrew swears that there is smoke coming from both instruments and Mollie and Charlie are doing a modified Charleston across the stage, giggling as they bounce and shake.

Aaron is laughing and shaking his head. “I thought you came here to _learn_ Mr. Holmes-cat. I think maybe _you_ can teach us a thing or two!”

Sherlock is suddenly embarrassed. He picks up his case quickly and packs away the violin and the bow. Lonny steps up next to him and lays one broad palm on Sherlock’s thin shoulder. “Hey, man, its alright, you did great! Come back by tomorrow evening and we’ll introduce you to some of the club staff.”

Sherlock chances a glance up at the big man, his eyes wide with joy and trepidation. He’s played for his family, but he’s never had a chance to really get into this new style of music in such a big way.

“That is, if you want it. The gig’s yours, man.” Lonny holds out his other hand and Sherlock grasps it, not quite knowing what to say other than a whisper of gratitude that passes his lips.

Sherlock almost runs the three blocks from the club to his small hotel room. He is so keyed up that he almost forgets to take off his suit before dropping onto the bed face-first and falling into a deep and (for the first time since he stepped off the plane) worry-free slumber.


	2. Blue Eyes

_I’d feel so blue_

_For the longest while_

_I forgot to smile_

_Then I met you_

_Now that my blue days have passed_

_Now that I’ve found you at last_

Mollie sings Irving Berlin’s words with passion, alternating between crooning to the crowd and turning to look at Charlie behind the drums. It has only taken two evening gigs for Sherlock to understand that they are a couple; he is fairly certain they are married, even though neither of them wears a ring. This is the last set of the night and the dancers moving about the floor have dwindled down to the last few couples. Most surprising to Sherlock after the past few days is that the couples don’t always consist of men and women. He has noted at least one female-female pair and two pairs of men. The chandelier above them casts a soft golden light that caresses curls, almost-bare shoulders, and sparkling jewelry.

No matter their partner, the dancers are all dressed to the nines. The women bounce and shake in dresses complete with beads and embroidery; the men in black tuxedoes with their hair slicked back. It seems that everyone is trying to make an impression on everyone else. At the beginning of the night, the smells of fifty different perfumes and colognes permeated the air. As the evening wears on, the temperature in the club raises. Some of the men remove their bow ties while others are brave enough to be _sans_ jacket and even others have even unbuttoned their shirts a bit. Many of the ladies have kicked off their shoes and are dancing barefoot or in their stockings. There is smoke in the air from a myriad of pipes and cigarettes; some of the smoke has a sweet, oily smell to it that Sherlock does not question from his perch on the stage.

Several tables have been tightly packed against the back wall opposite the dance floor. There are several trays of simple finger foods laid out on them, as well as tonic water and several flavors of carbonated beverages. Up on the stage they all have a glass of water. Sherlock’s is under his stool. He finishes his part and reaches down for the cup as he watches the crowd. He sets the cup back under his stool after taking a few sips then crosses his long legs, cradling the violin in his lap. He waves the bow in the air as Lonny stands up and does a little jig on the stage.

Mollie finishes her song and everyone steps from behind their instruments and takes a bow. What remains of their audience gives them a healthy round of applause as the evening concludes. Sherlock carries his violin in loving hands as he steps across the dance floor towards the green room. He stops in front of a mirror and takes in his appearance in his tuxedo. His bow tie hangs loose about his neck as he untied it awhile back. He is still wearing his shiny black jacket and his hair is starting to come out of the neat style that Mollie had teased it into a couple of hours ago. He gives a tired grin to the mirror and packs up the violin.

While he is snapping the wooden case closed the rest of the band enters the room, voices glad and exhausted at the same time. Lonny gives him a pat on the back with one broad hand as he passes Sherlock on the way to his banjo case. Aaron and Andrew offer him quiet smiles as they leave walking side by side, Aaron’s trumpet case swinging against his leg. Andrew lights a long cigarette on the way out. The club is so quiet now that standing by the door of the green room, Sherlock catches the sound of a match striking the cover and _psst_ sound of it going out against Andrew’s fingertips. Their shoes clatter against the wooden floor, the sound growing fainter as they move towards the front doors.

Charlie and Lonny are quickly engaged in a quiet conversation in the back of the room as Mollie steps up beside Sherlock, laying one hand against his arm. She's only about five feet tall, so it would be a bit of stretch for her to reach his shoulder and she’s a bit leery of being sweaty under the arms from the long set this evening, so she settles her hand against the soft black material of his tuxedo. He genuinely likes Mollie and considers her to be a _good_ person. He looks down into her sparkling brown eyes, taking in the neat, curled style of her short black hair and the slight tinge of pink against the caramel-colored skin of her cheeks. She always seems so full of joy that it is difficult for him to _not_ like this woman. Though he would never be interested in her in a physical way, he can’t help that his eyes take in her sheer black beaded dress and shiny black shoes. Her emerald raindrop earrings frame her face and bounce a little as she tugs gently on Sherlock’s arm to lead him over towards Lonny and Charlie.

“Sherlock, you did marvelous tonight.”  She pats Sherlock’s arm, the silver bracelet on her wrist jangling a little. He mumbles a quiet thank you. “You ought to not be so shy! You beautiful light-skinned thing, you stand out about a mile!” She giggles a little and pokes him in the ribs.

Finishing their conversation, Lonny and Charlie agree with Mollie by nodding their heads in unison. Charlie reaches out a long arm towards Mollie and pulls her into a one-armed embrace, her back against his chest. She leans against him, her head just barely reaching his chin.  “Tell him, Lonny. Tell him how he’s being checked out by everything in the club: light-skinned, dark-skinned, women and men…” She trails off a little as a new fit of giggles overtakes her. Charlie even chuckles.

“Mollie Bee, you’ve got to mind your own beeswax!” He pushes her away from his body and then twirls her back in, giving her a firm plant on her full lips. Sherlock is actually embarrassed now and looks down at the tops of his shiny shoes. The snowy white spats aren’t incredibly uncomfortable but he thinks they make his feet look absolutely humongous.

Lonny gives Sherlock another one of his bone-cracking pats on the back. Sherlock is pulled out of the study of his shoes. “She don’t mean no harm, Sherlock, she’s in love and wants everyone to feel that way.” Sherlock nods to Lonny. They are almost the same height, but even so, Sherlock has to tilt his head upwards just a tad to meet Lonny’s eyes. “Did you leave someone behind in London, Sherlock?”

So far, Sherlock hasn’t said much and he certainly hasn’t spoken to any of them about his home. He shrugs his shoulders, so tired now that he can actually hear the material rustling on his back. Lonny accepts this answer. “Ok, I understand. I won’t pry, man. Seriously, though, you’ve been here for a while, it’s time for you to have a little fun. What say you hang with me a bit tonight?”

Sherlock thinks it over. He shrugs again considering going back to his very lonely room and putting himself to sleep with _The Picture of Dorian Gray_. He’s almost finished the novel for the third time, no good reason to not take a night out. “Alright, okay.” He says quietly.

“Sherlock, you are with the band, cat. You don’t need to keep that accent quiet anymore!” With a shake of his head that causes his silver curls to bounce as if they are doing the Charleston, Lonny picks up his banjo case and Sherlock follows him out the door. “Goodnight!” Lonny calls to Mollie and Charlie.

The just-after-midnight streets are quiet and there is a soft mist of rain falling, the only sound between Sherlock and Lonny is the little noises of instrument cases creaking. Lonny is letting off an excited air that Sherlock cannot ignore. He finally decides to speak after a quick study of the streetlight reflections in some puddles that they pass.

“What’ve you got in mind?” Sherlock continues to look straight ahead. Sometimes he flinches at his own strong accent, always worrying about not fitting in with the locals.

“Well, two things. You understand about Prohibition?” Lonny inquires. Even though they sound vastly different, the older man and the young man have struck up a tight friendship between them. Lonny has wondered a few times what Sherlock sees in him; none of them have ever looked at Sherlock with anything less than respect for his talents. Why then, is he so concerned about the sound of his own voice? Lonny is taken out of his reverie when Sherlock finally speaks up.

“Yes.” Sherlock steals a glance at the big man at his side. He wonders if he should play his hand or bluff. He decides that laying his cards on the table is for the best. “Just because something is a law doesn’t make it _right_.”

Lonny’s eyes dance with glee. “Alright then. Follow me.” The two of them move down the quiet streets, long thin legs and long muscular ones keeping in time with one another. It isn’t long before they stand in front of a plain brown door at the back end of several alleys. Lonny raps his knuckles against the wood and soon a man’s broad face peeks through the tiny window set in the door.

“Password.” A stern voice commands.

“Ace of spades always beats Queen of hearts.” Lonny says to the door.

After a moment there’s the sound of a bolt sliding back and the door opens. Lonny gestures for Sherlock to go first then follows. They pass the doorman who is roughly the size of a gorilla, though his hair is more the color of an orangutan’s. Sherlock decides that he’s probably not someone to mess with and gives him a polite nod, trying hard not to notice the rather child-like wash of freckles across the man’s nose and cheeks. Lonny, on the other hand, seems to know the man well and shakes hands with him; the other man’s hand actually engulfing Lonny’s broad one.

“Thanks, Daniel.” Lonny offers. He holds out a hand for Sherlock to move out of the tiny hallway. Sherlock can’t help but be impressed with what he sees. There are tables along one wall and it looks as if poker is a standard here. There are men and women, some of them he recognizes from the club he was just playing in, others seem to have materialized off of the streets. There are some people dancing to a two-piece band in one corner, the woman holding a wine glass in her hand while she laughs at a joke from the man with his hands on her waist. Lonny and Sherlock both set their instrument cases against the bar in front of their stools.

Mostly, though, there are gallons of alcohol. He and Lonny belly up to a make-shift bar. Sherlock plants himself on a rickety stool while Lonny stands next to him and holds up two fingers towards the bartender. She gives him a nod and carries over a bottle of amber Canadian whiskey.

“Hey there, Lonny! It sure has been a while. Haven’t heard you play in a bit, still picking that banjo of yours?” She is speaking to Lonny, but her blue eyes haven’t left Sherlock’s face. Lonny chuckles and doesn’t answer her questions. Instead, he introduces Sherlock as the band’s violin player.

The bartender holds out a hand, but not to shake. She turns her palm downward. With a smile, Sherlock grasps her small hand in his long fingers and kisses the top of it. “Hello.” This time he doesn’t even try to hide the accent.

Lonny tries to contain his glee at watching Miriam just about come apart at the seams at the sound of Sherlock’s deep melted-chocolate voice. He stifles a laugh when her eyes widen in surprise but can’t hold it anymore when he sees her go weak at the knees.

“My god, Lonny, where the hell did you dig up this stray cat?” Miriam finally pulls her eyes away from Sherlock. Her hands are actually trembling when she reaches into a box under the counter and pulls out a pair of shot glasses. She flicks her eyes at Sherlock one more time, grabs the bottle off the bar and disappears. Sherlock turns to Lonny and raises an eyebrow.

With a chuckle, Lonny says “Hang on.” Miriam scrambles back to them holding another bottle of Canadian whiskey; this time, however, the bottle is new and the liquid within is a darker color.

“Honey, you deserve the _good stuff_.” She almost pants as she pours their shots. She retrieves a shot glass for herself and holds it out toward them. “To music and good times!” They down their shots. Sherlock sputters just a little as the liquid heats up his tonsils. Miriam clinks her glass down on the wooden bar and runs a hand through the brown curls at the nape of her neck. She nervously adjusts her dark blue cap until it rests just above her eyebrows.

“Come on Miriam, how about a dance?” Lonny asks. It takes her a second to realize that Sherlock isn’t speaking. She looks at Lonny and he notes just a hint of disappointment in her eyes. He shakes his head, peering at her out of the corner of his eye. Her mouth forms an “o” as she steps out from around the bar. She gives Sherlock one more once over and states: “Well, it’s really too bad!” before she and Lonny step towards the dance floor. Another woman from across the room moves to take Miriam’s place. She says hello to Sherlock but then busies herself with two other people that have come over for drinks.

Sherlock watches the people mill about. All in all, there are about fifty people in the room including Lonny and himself. Lonny is now dancing with his third partner, a petite black woman about his age. She’s cuddled her small frame against his larger one and he’s holding one of her hands out from their bodies while his other hand is so low on the back of her white silk dress that he’s almost cupping her cheeks. Lonny catches Sherlock’s eye from the dance floor and gives him a wink. Sherlock holds his third shot in Lonny’s direction and finally gets up off the stool. He heads towards one of the poker tables. It doesn’t take long before he is winning.

There is a hum in the place as the early morning hours start to wane. People from all walks of life have come and gone since Sherlock and Lonny arrived. Lonny has moved from the dance floor to the poker table with Sherlock and they are deep into a game when the hum of the room changes to complete silence. Sherlock lays his cards flat on the table and follows the dealer’s gaze to the entrance. One man is standing in the doorway, holding the fedora he just removed from his head in his hands. The bit of early morning light filtering in from the tiny window calls attention to his neatly-cut golden hair. He looks up at a crowd gone still with clear blue eyes. Sherlock completely forgets about his cards. The man in the doorway gives a nod towards the card dealer and walks over towards the bar. The music in the corner starts again and the hum of the room goes back to what it was before, if not a little bit quieter.

After winning fifty dollars, Sherlock stands and stretches his legs. Lonny pockets several of his own bills before asking Sherlock if he’s had enough for one night. They both retrieve their instrument cases from the floor next to their chairs. Sherlock takes another look at the blond man at the bar with his hat beside him. The man is hunched over his drink, seemingly oblivious to everyone else in the place. He takes a moment to study the faint striping in the man's brown suit, noting how the color of the light wool contrasts with his hair which is cut neatly across the nape of his neck. The hat lying on the bar is a darker color brown, well-worn with a tiny black feather tucked into the band. Sherlock studies this man a little longer while Lonny settles the bill with the large ginger doorman. Sherlock wonders if the man knows he's being watched, though he gives no indication. His shoulders remain slumped, one hand circling the glass, the index finger from the other hand tracing lazy circles around the top of it; he seems to be completely in another world. Sherlock gets the impression that here is a working man, exhausted after a long day; there's something _more_ , though, that he can't put a finger on.

As Sherlock and Lonny step out into the bright sun of midmorning, Sherlock realizes that almost everyone in the joint had the same reaction to the blond man. They stop in front of the hotel where Sherlock is staying and Lonny bids him a good day. They don’t have a gig this evening, since it’s now Sunday, so he’ll probably go home and sleep the afternoon away. Sherlock feels the pull of his bed strongly, too. But first he needs information.

Lonny has just started to walk away when Sherlock calls him back. “Lonny, who was that man?” He wants to add _with the piercing blue eyes_ because he knows that Lonny has already figured him out, but decides to keep that to himself.

Lonny doesn’t miss a beat, it would have been obvious to a blind man just who it was that Sherlock _noticed_. “That’s Mr. John Watson, private eye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, yesterday was my birthday so I was lazy and didn't write! Also, if you are curious, here is a sample of some clothing from the year that this story takes place: http://www.thepeoplehistory.com/1925fashions.html  
> The grey double-breasted suit is the one Sherlock is wearing in Chapter 1 and the striped brown suit towards the bottom of the page is what I see John wearing. (Also, note those prices!)


	3. Friends

Lonny and his band play six nights a week at the club; the other night Sherlock spends in Lonny’s company sometimes with the others, more often just the two of them. They usually while away the early morning hours playing poker or blackjack. The speakeasy is actually a rather calm place, people kicking back and relaxing after a week of work or play. Sherlock’s life has settled into an easy rhythm and he is quite pleased by it all; the only dark spot on the otherwise bright stage that it has become is the mystery that is John Watson: the man who brought a speakeasy to a halt just by walking in the door. Even a policeman coming through the front doors would have created a panic at best or possibly a shoot out at worst.

Last night, Lonny explained the reasons for everyone’s reactions that morning at the speakeasy. John used to be “one of the boys” hanging out, listening to jazz, even playing a bit on his grandfather’s old clarinet. Some people seemed to think that he sold out when he took the job as a private eye and were suspicious on those days he would show up at the speakeasy. To Sherlock, though, the blond man seems  to be carrying around a bit of despair that he could not find relief from in the bottom of a glass of illegal fire water. It bothers him that there is _something_ about John that Sherlock cannot place. As was his nature, once he found a thing interesting, he just couldn’t let go. Hence the reason he was so far from home in the first place.

“Did he ever play with you, Lonny?” Sherlock takes a deep drag on the cigarette he holds in his long fingers. He is sitting in the green room with his legs bent at the knees on a bench , his back against the wall. His violin lays across his lap and he holds the bow with its point down on the floor. Sherlock is still wearing his tuxedo, though he had loosened the bow tie and unbuttoned several of the buttons on his shirt. His feet in their shoes and spats are planted together on the bench, their shiny leather catching and reflecting back the red glow at the end of the cigarette. His hair is just beginning to unfurl from its neat style, a single curl slipping rebelliously over his right eye. Overall he’s the picture of a relaxed musician after a successful set on a busy Friday night.

Lonny has just entered the room, flicking loose his own bow tie. He pulls off the white gloves he has chosen for the evening and stuffs them into his pockets. Quite some time ago, he found that it ceased being strange that he could step into the middle of a conversation that Sherlock seemed to be having with himself. Stranger still is that once in a while he actually knows what Sherlock is talking about. Lonny scratches absentmindedly at the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin. “John Watson? Yeah, he sat in for Mollie a couple of times while she was pregnant.”

That threw Sherlock a curve ball for an instant; he would certainly return to that subject at another time. Neither Mollie nor Charlie ever mentioned a child. Perhaps he really didn’t want to hear their story.

“Sherlock, don’t bring it up. It’s a painful thing to both of them, least of all Mollie. They are good people and don’t need to be reminded of bad times.” Lonny says to him, giving off the air of dispensing fatherly advice. Sherlock nods to the big man and closes his eyes, inhaling the smoke. That statement pretty much told him everything he would not have figured out on his own eventually.  Lonny doesn’t offer any more information and Sherlock will not ask. He just watches as everyone comes in, gets themselves together and then leaves, offering him a goodnight or a see-you-tomorrow as they go their separate ways. They all play well together; even so Sherlock found himself once again wondering about John Watson and how he would have fit in with the musicians.

In Sherlock’s life, he had not had much contact with people who weren’t of the typical English rose variety. His family had gone a little off the deep end when he started tuning into the single jazz music show he could get on the radio. His violin was only _supposed_ to be used for playing the classics. Being a naturally rebellious young man (and already a bit of a black sheep because he refused to date the girls they picked out for him…actually any _girls_ at all) Sherlock set his sights on learning how to play the new music coming out of the USA.

His father had caught wind of the transatlantic flights taking the mail from the UK to the US and Sherlock found himself shuffled onto the first plane his family could purchase passage on. They told him that it was so he could _pursue his dreams,_ though he felt that it was awfully convenient that they had never paid much attention to what he wanted before. Then he found out about his brother’s upcoming engagement to some important debutante and had been more than willing to fly the coop, perhaps to never go home. The flight had been a long and miserable, cramped, tight ride with a pilot who only saw Sherlock as a way to make money. The plane was outfitted for one person and mail bags; not a pilot and a six-foot tall young man. As Sherlock had left the plane when it finally touched down in Chicago, the pilot had attempted to steal the violin case right from Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock wondered if the man had ever recovered from his broken nose. Naturally, he hoped it healed crooked.

So it went, he had been given a handful of cash and an heirloom instrument and sent packing. He wasn't foolish enough to call it an "off year" because no invitation to return had as yet been issued.

Sherlock wanders down the lit streets, only occasionally looking up from the sidewalk to consider the direction he is walking in, taking long drags on yet another cigarette. He bites into the stick and musses his hair with one hand. Suddenly he finds himself actually crashing into another human being just after midnight on a Friday as his thoughts have taken him hither and yon. Without thinking, he extends one hand towards the rumpled figure who has managed to stay on his feet.

The streetlight behind Sherlock gives a little flicker as the stranger looks up at him from under the brim of an old brown fedora. Sherlock’s eyes rove over the broad shoulders and square fighting build of the man he’s been thinking about for weeks. Exhausted blue eyes surrounded by faint crinkle lines and dark bags underneath bore into his. He tries to apologize but only receives a little grunt for his efforts. Irritated at the man’s rudeness, Sherlock grasps his arm. Suddenly he’s lying on his back on the hard pavement staring up at the streetlights and the stars. It is most difficult to tell if the stars are real or the result of the back of his head striking the pavement.

“I don’t know who you think you are, but that was very unwise.” For all of John Watson’s strength, he is exhausted and knows if he doesn’t bluff well he’s going to get hurt.

By way of introducing himself, Sherlock states simply: “Lonny Orinson told me about you.” Sherlock relaxes and prepares to have this conversation from his current location flat on his back. John seems to consider Sherlock’s words then holds out an arm to help the younger man off the ground. Sherlock scouts the immediate area for his violin case and reaches down for it. He takes a moment to recollect himself and absently brushes dust off the case. John knows the overall shape of a violin case when he sees one.

“Look, kid.” John’s voice is gravely from the whiskey he’d downed not half an hour ago. It was most certainly _not_ Miriam’s _good stuff_. “I don’t know what you think you know about me, but whatever it is, just forget it. Lonny is a good man, seems like you could learn a lot from him.” John starts to turn away from Sherlock: Sherlock stops himself from grabbing his arm again. Instead he just speaks quietly, allowing his voice to be little more than a rumble in his chest.

“I can tell that you are in pain. When I saw you a few weeks ago you seemed to be despairing…”

John seems to fly three steps back to where Sherlock is standing. His eyes are narrowed, a deep red flush spreading across his face which has gone even paler with his anger, his lips pressed into a line so tight that they are turning chalk white.  “I have _never_ seen you before, I’d know an accent like that anywhere; kid…whatever you have heard forget it.” He mumbles the last bit to himself as he shoves his hands into his pockets and begins to move down the sidewalk.

Sherlock generally knows when to fold his hand, but a stubborn part of him says that he’s got to try just one more time. He takes a deep breath for his second attempt, this time holding out a hand towards John.  “Sir, my name is Sherlock Holmes.” John halts in midstride, mumbles “what the hell” under his breath and turns back for the third time. He shakes the offered hand, silently taking note of the long, thin violinist's fingers…then abruptly dams the flow of where those thoughts are taking him.

He has to admit that this young English Apollo is gorgeous. Young he is, though, and John is no cradle-robber. After the past two years he actually thinks he’s had enough of any and all relationships. There is one drawback, though: this tall, curly-haired, green-eyed, tuxedo-clad jazz player looks like he needs a friend. John is torn.

“How long have you been in Chicago, Sherlock?” John asks after what seems like a million years of silence between them.

“A few weeks. Lonny has been showing me _around_ a bit, teaching me the ropes.”

“Ah. But what in the world are you doing _here_ of all places?” John refuses to feel bad about the rudeness.

Sherlock gives him the hint of a smile. “It’s a long story.”

John flicks his wrist over, glances at his watch and then back to Sherlock. Tomorrow is Saturday and he’s really got nowhere to be and no cases on. “Coffee?” He asks casually. Sherlock nods his agreement. Neither speaks until John has them settled in a tiny booth in the back of an all-night diner that caters to the police force. Sherlock’s eyes rove about the place, taking in the officers as they stop by for a fifteen-minute chat and a cup of coffee. The city is still alive even at this time of night, though its vibrant pulse is muted by a blanket of darkness.

A man in a dirty white apron brings over two cups of coffee and John sets a dollar bill on the table in front of them. The man nods and the watches the money disappear into his pocket. John settles his hands around the cup reminiscent of the way he was sitting at the bar the first time Sherlock saw him. Sherlock takes a sip of the dark brew and waits for John to speak. He has made a habit of studying people and often knows things about them that perhaps they don’t even realize. He has also learned the hard way that they often don’t want to hear those things repeated back to them, and so he waits.

“Lonny told you, then, that I’m a private dick?” John inquires, staring into his coffee.

“Yes.”

“Good, then.” John takes a deeper drink from his cup. “What were you doing on the street in the middle of the night?” He asks without missing a beat.

Sherlock wasn’t expecting to be questioned; he considers not answering but then takes it all in stride. “Getting back from a gig at the Blue Room club. And you?”

John nods, thinks over his next statement and seems to make up his mind about something. “Late last night, there was a murder a couple of streets over. I know the officer who was called to the scene and I was curious. I stopped by and had a look around, ascertained that the vic had nothing to do with my current case and moved on. That’s when you ran into me on the sidewalk.”

It takes some effort for Sherlock to not point out that John ran into _him_. “Ah.” He allows.

“Kid, if you are looking for a friend you could do better than a thirty-five year old dick.”

“No.” Sherlock experiments with the same voice he used on Miriam, wondering if it would work on this apparently lonely man. He can’t even begin to explain what it is he’s looking for, mostly because he doesn’t even know himself. The band members treat him well and have respect for his ability, but it doesn’t seem like he can consider any of them much more than that.

The vibrations from the baritone voice of the young man sitting across the table from him seem to crackle in the air the way it sometimes happens after a lightning strike. The part of his brain that hasn’t been shut off due to recent events wants to give this a chance; however, the part of his brain that feels his life is worthless holds up a big red stop sign. He is tired of working hard and then going home to an empty apartment. He really has nothing to look forward to at home except a glass of rotgut and another long night alone.

“You seem like a nice kid, Sherlock. Go find yourself a young person capable of engaging you. It was nice having this little chat. Stay out of trouble.” John snatches his hat from the table and mashes it on his head as he beats a hasty retreat out of the diner. Sherlock downs the dregs of his beverage and just watches him leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dick" is another term for "private eye." Also, if you are really interested in this stuff, look up "Pinkerton Detective Agency."  
> Also-I need to stop writing at 2AM. I'm really sorry to all of you for the sill mistakes. Thank you!


	4. Goodly Share of Bliss

It’s another solid week of evening sets before Sherlock again lays eyes on John Watson. It is very late Saturday night, much closer to the wee hours of Sunday morning when Sherlock looks up from the fan of cards he is holding and gazes towards the man in the fedora standing in the doorway. He’s been sitting at the table beating the dealer with every single hand since Lonny left with a woman in a flapper dress a couple of hours ago. The dealer is beginning to get a little irritated: he’s lost over seventy dollars to Sherlock and it appears that winning streak isn’t going to be over anytime soon. Out of aggravation he keeps smoothing down his black pinstriped vest. Every time he does it, Sherlock gives him a couple of little eyebrow twitches and then asks for _two_ more cards. He is considering complaining to the boss though that will be useless since Miriam’s taken a liking to the Englishman. He watches Sherlock closely, looking for any indication that the young man is counting cards. So far he hasn’t found it.

Sherlock watches John cross the room to the bar out of the corner of his eye.  He scans his hand, offers the dealer two of his cards then receives two more. He finally lays down the whole hand, spreading the cards across the table with a dramatic flair: a bleeding Royal Flush. Sherlock smirks up at the dealer as he collects his cash. The deal lets a breath of air escape through pursed lips as Sherlock snatches up his violin case and moves away from the table. He shakes his head and sits down in the chair behind his table, yanking a much smaller wad of cash out of his pocket. As he counts it he gives Sherlock’s back a glare. Miriam notices the dealer from the bar and gives him a tiny wave. He waves back and decides that the night may not be a total loss.

 Sherlock is at the bar and beside John in a matter of a few strides. He pulls out the stool beside John and waves two fingers at Miriam, subconsciously copying Lonny. Miriam gives him a smile and steps away to retrieve the bottle of Canadian whiskey Sherlock is requesting. She looks over her shoulder towards the card dealer and adjusts her cap with one hand.

John is already halfway through his first drink. Like before, he sits with his hands wrapped around the glass like he’s afraid to lose it, though his shoulders don’t seem to have the slump that Sherlock noticed the first time he saw John in this place. John leans over the bar with his elbows resting against it. His creased and battered fedora sits in front of him; far enough away that any liquid sloshed from a glass will not splash on it.

 Sherlock studies John for a moment, noticing by his eyes that John is staring directly at the hat. Sherlock prefers John to be looking at him. He reaches down to the floor and moves his violin case from one side of the stool to the other. He picks it up and sets it in his lap, casually stroking it and then snapping the clips open and closed a few times. John’s eyes never move from the fedora. He doesn’t even acknowledge Sherlock. Sherlock is still for about three seconds before he starts to wonder where Miriam is with the _good stuff_. He sets one elbow against the bar and leans his chin into his palm. He fiddles with his hair. He scratches the stubble on his jaw. John still does not look at him, even as he takes another long drink from his glass. Sherlock studiously watches John’s mouth. John doesn’t notice: he seems lost in another world altogether. This idea does not please Sherlock by any stretch of the imagination.

He turns his attention for a few seconds towards the musicians over in the corner. Two couples are dancing close as the man at the microphone croons:

_What'll I do_  
 _When you are far away_  
 _And I am blue_  
 _What'll I do_

Tired of being ignored, Sherlock reaches over and grasps the top of John’s fedora in his long fingers. He gives a soft grunt that sounds like “Ha!” under his breath. Without looking at him, John snaps the hat by its brim out of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock makes a huffing sound that ends with the clatter of two empty shot glasses smacking against wood. The puff of air causes curls to fall down over his eye. He bats them away with one hand as John finally looks around at Sherlock and quirks a blond eyebrow at him. Miriam pours them both a measure of the whiskey before setting the bottle down in between them. John mumbles a quiet “thanks” though Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He knows if he opens his mouth that he’s going to ask Miriam what took her so long; he is stopped by the satisfied grin playing on her lips. He gives her a quiet nod instead that she returns with a wink.

Sherlock throws back his shot and grimaces against the burn of the stuff, closing his eyes. John has also picked up his glass though somehow his hand has stopped midway between the bar and his mouth. His blue eyes are burning holes into Sherlock’s long, pale throat. The shot glass shakes and some of the liquid slops onto John’s trembling hand. John glances down at the offending appendage as if he wonders who it belongs to and then back to Sherlock and gulps audibly. Sherlock’s eyes open just as John is throwing back his shot. John sighs and wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand. He’s not wearing his jacket tonight and so Sherlock notices where a little of the whiskey has run down John’s hand and lightly dampened his shirt cuff, causing a small amber smear against the cream colored material.

John looks up and notices Sherlock watching the small stream of liquid that has run down John’s forearm. John can’t help but see the way Sherlock’s eyes change from a calm green sea to a raging storm. John also can’t control the way his face is growing oh so very hot-and he knows damn well that it’s not from the whiskey. They just seem to freeze like that for a moment, all the clamor in the speakeasy fading away to a low roar and then only thing that they can see is each other. John wants to fight it. Mostly. His last two relationships, the first with a man, second with a woman, fell flat. Both of them left him for another man. It was heartbreaking and troubling and there was no way he was going through this again, or so he attempts to tell himself.

John is thinking all of these things in the instant that the tip of Sherlock’s tongue pokes out of his mouth and just barely taps the backside of his bottom lip.

John falls with a bang. Quite literally: right off the stool and flat on his back on the not-so-clean  floor.

Sherlock jumps up, surprised; he recovers quickly and stands over John for just a second smiling down at him. “My turn!” He crows, holding out his hand. John pulls himself up from the floor and tries desperately not to notice the lean muscles of Sherlock’s arm. He tries to think about how two drinks made him dizzy and that he really needs to stop coming out here. He really wants to think about how he needs to get home and sleep but then there is an amazing pair of lips against his own and an incredibly strong arm at his waist and yes, oh god, yes he is done for.

Sherlock takes advantage of John’s momentary lapse in, well, everything by leaning down and kissing him full on the mouth. He can feel John stiffen just for a moment and then he’s kissing him back. It’s not a rough kiss though it would never be defined as a soft one, either. Sherlock hears Miriam give a chuckle and then clap her hands behind them. He smiles a little himself as they pull away from each other. John is only a few inches shorter, though Sherlock is finding he likes it very much because it forces John to look up at him. Sherlock is mentally discovering that he likes looking into those eyes.

John is the first to speak. He knows that the line is going to come out ridiculous but it’s all he can think of in that half second between a wonderful pressure against his mouth and an empty ache as Sherlock pulls back from him, so he just blurts it out. “Your place or mine?”

Two heartbeats pass before Sherlock answers. John is almost horrified when Sherlock raises an eyebrow, he’s ready to run for the door when Sherlock’s voice cuts through his panic. “Would you like a dance first?”

John is so relieved that he actually giggles. He takes Sherlock by the hand and leads him over towards the dance floor. Another couple has joined the dancers already present. They move out a bit to allow for Sherlock and John. Sherlock quietly allows John to take the lead and it isn’t long before they are closing the place down. Miriam has closed the bar for the day and has stepped up to the microphone. Her voice doesn’t have the smoky, brassy quality of Mollie’s, though it is pleasing nonetheless. She hums a few bars before letting the lyrics roll off of her tongue like water over Niagara Falls.

_Life is not a highway strewn with flowers,_  
 _Still it holds a goodly share of bliss,_  
 _When the sun gives way to April showers,_  
 _Here is the point you should never miss._

Miriam finishes the set as John and Sherlock move towards the door. With the first rays of the blinding Sunday morning light they close their eyes for a moment and head out into the streets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you all know this, but I'm using "bleeding" in the sense that the cards are all red: either diamonds or hearts, up to you to decide. Of course, to Mr. Dealer, I'm sure he's thinking the word as bleeding/bloody!


	5. Cool Showers

Spring has crashed right into summer. A slight breeze wafts through the open windows of John’s office and catches the corner of a loose page in the file that he’s just tossed down on his mahogany desk. It bounces a little before settling in a haphazard fashion, papers and photographs scattering about.

John drops heavily into his chair as the foul mood that’s been threatening since he pulled himself out of bed that morning now coming on full strength. John rubs his eyes with his palms and runs his fingers through the slightly damp hair at his nape. He leans back against the chair, letting out a long sigh. Not even looking at the file, he shoves the whole mess forward and rests his head on his forearms. Ever since Sherlock had begun staying with him, John has found himself more and more dissatisfied with his job. Some part of him is seriously missing the kind of life Sherlock is leading; a life he thought he had left behind a few years ago.

The case he’s been attempting to work on all morning is boring him to death. Instead of being wrapped up in his lover’s arms, John’s been pouring over a domestic disagreement between a married man, his wife and her sister. It’s more than a little tedious and very, very dull. He’s followed the wife around armed with both his Brownie and a brand new Leica but has yet to catch her in a compromising situation. John is starting to believe that the husband is the culprit and that the man only hired a private eye in order to raise suspicions about his wife—effectively keeping himself in the clear for the affair John is sure he’s having with his sister-in-law. The only good thing John can see about the whole ridiculous episode is the fat check he’s got in his pocket.

John finally decides he’s had enough for the day, possibly for the whole week. He stuffs two rolls of film from the desk drawer into his pocket. He will develop them himself with the little Kodak machine that he keeps in the bathroom after Sherlock heads out to the club for the evening. Since they have been cohabiting, neither of them has spent much time at Miriam’s, rather all their free time has been taken up with each other.

John grabs his hat off the hat rack, planting it firmly on his head as he opens the heavy wooden door. He locks it before dropping his keys into the pocket not containing the film rolls. The keys make a little jingly sound as he steps down the two steps, moving out of the short breezeway between his office and the street. The morning is relatively quiet, only a few cars and some delivery trucks out; he stops at a sidewalk vendor for a cup of coffee. John tips the guy fifty cents and considers the intelligence of a hot beverage on such a warm day. The humidity has risen past “hot” and into “sticky” levels. The sky above is clear and the sun caresses John’s shoulders as he makes his way towards his brownstone. He climbs the stairs slowly, sweat dripping down his face. He sets the paper cup on the banister next to the door and reaches into his pocket to retrieve his keys. Before he gets the key into the lock, the door is pulled open and a rather sleepy-looking Sherlock stands in front of him apparently wearing nothing except one of John’s linen bed sheets.

John leaves the paper cup behind as he pushes forward into the house and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist. Neither man says anything, not that there’s too much that can be said when your lips are locked together so tightly that you can barely breathe. Sherlock runs his hands down John’s back, his palm warm against the dampness of John’s shirt. When they pull away, John unbuttons his shirt and drops it to the floor. He finally catches his breath and manages to growl out “Sherlock, shower. I’m just too hot…” Sherlock answers with a little growl of his own and drops the sheet. John inhales deeply at the sight of the pristine lean and muscular body in front of him. He actually feels like a lion staring through the iron bars of his cage, salivating over a choice piece of buffalo meat. Sherlock has the audacity to grin at his lover before turning gracefully on his bare feet and moving into the bathroom.

Sherlock reaches in and turns on the water, making it slightly cooler than usual. John finishes stripping off his clothing and steps in behind the curtain. He takes a moment to allow the water to rinse the sweat off his body. He closes his eyes and tips his head back and suddenly there are lips against his neck and long, cool fingers wrapping around his hot arousal. John pushes Sherlock back until the younger man’s naked back is against the tiles. John slides down Sherlock’s wet body until his knees slam against the floor of the bathtub. Sherlock inhales a sharp breathe as John gently kisses the tip of his dripping cock. John slides his tongue along the shaft and takes it all in when Sherlock moans. All of the frustrations of John’s day literally come to a head as Sherlock pants and pulls John’s face closer to him. Sherlock comes with a shout only hindered by the fist he’s shoved into his mouth. John stands up slowly, swallowing as he watches Sherlock’s mind slam back into his body. He leans against the taller man, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock reaches over him and gracefully lifts a bar of soap from its resting place. He soaps up a washcloth that was hung over the curtain bar and gently runs the cloth down John’s back and over his arms. John sighs and leans against his lover more heavily. Sherlock gently pushes John away from him and deftly washes John’s chest. His hand moves slowly downward until the cloth is wrapped around John’s cock. Sherlock slowly, painstakingly pulls the terry material across John’s now-aching arousal and John makes a soft, muted sound. Sherlock steps forward into John’s space, effectively forcing John back under the running water. As the last of the soap bubbles run down the drain, Sherlock drops to his knees to return the favor.

John reaches out one hand to steady himself against the tiles and also to keep Sherlock from pushing him into the faucet. The other hand rests against the top of Sherlock’s head, grasping the soaking wet hairs and tugging them gently. John wants to just grab Sherlock’s head and arch his hips into his face but he won’t. He won’t. He’s lost two too many long-time lovers in the past due to his tendency for a slight bit of aggression when aroused. Not this time. The feeling of that amazing godlike mouth and tongue around his cock are making his knees shake. When his orgasm hits, Sherlock actually holds him up until he stops quaking. Sherlock gets out of the shower first and wraps a towel around his waist. He pulls another one off the towel holder and hands it back to a still-blushing John. John accepts it and drapes it about his own hips. As they turn to leave the small room, John grabs Sherlock by the hips and reels him in for another passionate kiss. John opens his eyes during their lip lock so that he can see Sherlock’s beautiful face. He is very afraid that this isn’t going to last so he is committing every tiny moment to memory the best he’s able.

Eventually, they come back up for air. Sherlock gives John the once over, his pale green eyes flicking over the stocky, well-built body of his lover and friend. “You are tired, yes?”

“Yes.” John answers.

“You need to be in bed.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve had all day.” Sherlock leads them towards John’s bedroom. John collapses on the bed and stretches out against the cool sheet. He closes his eyes and feels the mattress give as Sherlock leaves the room. In a few seconds or an hour, John can’t tell, his now dry and relatively cool body is covered by the sheet that Sherlock has evidently retrieved from the sitting room floor. He nuzzles his face deep into his pillow as his brain relaxes to the faint but pleasant strains of a violin being bowed as quietly as a soft kiss on a spring morning.


	6. Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hold on to your hats, the ride is about to get bumpy.

 Life moves forward throughout the summer, one sticky day at a time. Sometimes there are thunderstorms and on occasion a day that John and Sherlock take off together, mostly spending it lying in bed. John doesn’t have a word for whatever they have between them, though there are days when they both skirt the truth. It’s enough though, for now.

John rolls over that morning to drape himself across Sherlock’s bare chest. He studies the sleeping man for a moment before allowing his hands to roam all over Sherlock’s body. Once he’s got hold of Sherlock’s flaccid member he starts stroking him slowly. Sherlock’s eyes open in surprise and John is faced with cool, minty depths that send shivers from his head to his toes. He places the unoccupied hand at the base of Sherlock’s spine and presses him upward until their hips grind together. Sherlock arches his back into the movement when John leans in to crash their mouths together.

Later, after they are satiated they rest just a little longer. At some point Sherlock gets out of bed and opens the windows. There is the draft of a cool breeze on the air before the rain begins to pound on the roof. There is a peace in John’s heart that has been unknown for so long. Sherlock raises himself up on his arms and plants his face against John’s neck. John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s back and breathes him in slowly as they fall back to sleep.

Several hours later Sherlock is dressing himself in the bathroom and John is still lazing against the pillows. John smiles up at Sherlock as he reaches into the wardrobe for his black jacket.

“It’s going to be a late one tonight. There’s some sort of wedding reception. You should come join in the festivities.” Sherlock always breaks out his heavy London accent when he’s trying to seduce John. He doesn’t have to work that hard at it, really, but sometimes it’s still fun to do.

John thinks about it for a moment. “Maybe later. Right now I’m working really hard at doing nothing for a while.”

That gets John a little bit of a pouty smirk as Sherlock buttons up his jacket. He pats it down and adjusts the little white pocket square. John thinks he looks ravishing. “You certainly weren’t doing _nothing_ a few hours ago.” Sherlock says as he leans down to plant a kiss on John’s mouth. John kisses him back, resisting the urge to run his hands into Sherlock’s neat hair and mess it all up.

“See you later.” John says, swatting Sherlock’s rear as he turns away. John listens to Sherlock as he picks up the violin case and closes the door. He closes his eyes and thinks about how happy he is for once, slipping back to sleep.

Sherlock enters the club with a spring in his step. Lonny greets him with a wave from the stage where he is already tuning up for the set this evening. Andrew is behind the piano, his spats and tails pristine as always. He is doing some finger exercises across the keys, though he does stop and give Sherlock a little wave. Sherlock decides to skip the green room for the time being and hustles towards the stage. He stows the violin case underneath the piano, giving Aaron a welcoming nod as he enters the dance hall. They play a few bars to warm up and Lonny switches into a quick-strumming banjo solo.

Aaron looks at his watch as customers begin filling up the room. It’s not like Mollie and Charlie to be so late. Aaron calls Lonny’s name and holds up his hand, calling attention to his gold watch. Lonny shrugs his shoulders: what can I do? They may not have a singer this evening; that doesn’t stop them from playing the set. As the dance floor fills up, Lonny taps his foot on the ground and they start an easy tune to get the crowd on their feet. Sherlock watches the dancers with more glee than he can honestly say he’s ever felt in his life.

They are about halfway through the set and the dancers are whirling, bouncing and smiling. Some of them are mouthing the lyrics to the song that the band is currently playing. Sherlock has just stepped to the front of the stage for his solo when the copper entrance doors of the club smash against the wall. The music stops instantly and there is no mistaking the loud crash in the silence that follows.

Mollie stands in the opening, her petite body framed by the streetlights outside. Her hair is dripping wet and the straps on her dress are torn; the garment is hanging off of her. In unison, Lonny and Sherlock lay their instruments down and rush to Mollie’s side; Andrew and Aaron are just behind them. The crowd parts to allow them through. Lonny grabs Mollie and pulls her against his broad chest. She is trembling and weeping and gasping for breath. Lonny pats her back, trying to get her to calm down enough to tell them what’s going on.

Sherlock pulls back away from them and studies Mollie. Even with her dark skin he can see a bruise blossoming on her cheek. She is crying against Lonny, though her breathing is becoming more regular.

“It’s Charlie. He’s….he’s….” Mollie breaks down into further sobs.

“Mollie, you’ve got to tell us where he is.” Lonny tries.

Mollie shakes her head against him. He holds her out at arm’s length, pretty much forcing her to look into his face. “Mollie, we cannot help if we don’t know what’s going on.” His voice has a slight edge to it. Sherlock knows now why they all look up to him as a leader.

Mollie sniffles and attempts to pull herself together. Her little black cap is sitting askew on her head, a riot of curls sticking out from the other side. She wipes under her nose with the back of one hand and says calmly: “He’s outside. I think they killed him.” With that, the slim bit of composure she managed to gather leaves her and she all but collapses onto the floor.

“Aaron, please take her into the green room. Andrew, find the club owners and get back up on that stage. Fast. Do some improvising. As long as people are dancing, we shouldn’t lose the gig.” Andrew and Aaron both give Lonny nods of agreement. Andrew heads back towards the crowd. Aaron leans down to Mollie and gently scoops her tiny frame into his muscular arms. He carries her as one would a child. Lonny and Sherlock watch him go. Lonny turns to Sherlock. “Come on.” Lonny moves fast for a big man and Sherlock is hot on his heels; they rush out into the rainy night.

Moving at a jog it only takes the pair of them a few minutes to find Charlie. He’s crumpled on the ground. Lonny leans down and places his hand on Charlie’s neck. Sherlock stands behind him, unable to help and equally unsure of what to do. Lonny covers his face with one large hand and takes in a deep gulp of air. Sherlock lays his hand on Lonny’s shoulder. After a moment, Lonny looks up at him, his face tearstained. “I’ve got to find help. Stay here.” The big man is off again, shiny black tails and pristine white spats flashing in the streetlights. Sherlock kneels down beside Charlie’s body and just looks at him. From this angle with Charlie on his back, arms and legs akimbo, there is no way to tell what killed him. Sherlock considers that perhaps if he can see _how_ Charlie was murdered that maybe he can find out _why_. The idea of Mollie being in danger is repugnant to him. He pushes against Charlie’s shoulders until he’s got the man rolled over on his back.

All at once it becomes clear. There is a nasty knife buried to the hilt in Charlie’s neck. Not knowing any better, Sherlock reaches down and slides the blade out of Charlie’s body. There was enough pressure backed up to cause one last spurt of blood: it hits Sherlock on the side of his face and down his jacket. Now he’s not only soaking wet from the rain but also covered in blood and holding a knife. He turns his attention on the knife, holding it up slightly to see the blade against the streetlights.

It is right at that moment that John and a police officer round the corner. The officer yells something towards the man holding the knife with a body at his feet. He grabs Sherlock’s arms and pins them behind his back. The knife clatters to the sidewalk. Sherlock protests his innocence. The police officer drags him past John and towards the station. As he passes John he calls out for his lover to help him. John can only see the blood spatter against the glossy black material of Sherlock’s jacket. He can’t hear a single word Sherlock is saying to him. He is completely undone. Sherlock calls out to him, begs him to listen. John doesn’t hear any of it because he is busy listening to the sound of his heart shattering into a million pieces. He starts walking away, just to get away.

It’s all over in a matter of minutes. Lonny arrives back at the scene with another officer just as an ambulance pulls up to retrieve the body. Lonny searches around for Sherlock then heads back into the club to see to Mollie.

John keeps walking until he finds himself at his office. As rain runs into his starched collar, he thinks of the bottle in the drawer upstairs. He pulls his keys out of his pocket and lets himself into the building. He can’t see anything except for Sherlock’s pleading eyes. John closes his own eyes against the sight and rummages through his grey trousers for a cigarette. He lights it with a match as he crosses over the threshold to his desk. It’s going to be a very long night.

Sherlock is booked quickly and shown to a holding cell. He is still a relative newcomer here and has no one that he can ask for help with his one phone call. He sits down on the bench and hangs his head. He cannot understand why John wouldn’t listen to him. He could see that John’s expression was more than shock: he simply wasn’t present. Sherlock leans back against the cold stone wall and prepares to wait out a long and lonely night.

 


	7. Discoveries

“Will you please just listen to me?” Sherlock shouts as he paces the length of the holding cell, his hands buried in his hair. John is standing outside the cell, leaning against it with his weight on his arms and his head down. He looks terrible after not sleeping for a day and a half. He’s learned from Sherlock that none of the band members have tried to find him, most likely believing that he took off on his own. There has been no report of the crime in the papers or on the radio.

Sherlock can see the pain that John is buried under; he isn’t sure how to get the other man to understand.  He studies John’s rumpled shirt as his fingers attempt to betray him by reaching out and touching. After everything they’ve shared, he is having a difficult time understanding John’s reaction to the entire fiasco. He is completely blindsided, he doesn’t know what to do.

He starts rattling off facts, things he saw even in the brief time that he was with Charlie’s body. “The person who stabbed Charlie in the throat was likely female or a very small man. He was left-handed by the way the knife was angled. It wasn’t Mollie, though that would be a likely first thought. There wasn’t any blood on Mollie’s dress; it was torn like someone had grabbed at her. Charlie’s forehead is bruised as if it hit the pavement with his face _before_ he was killed.”

Sherlock stops in mid-sentence. John goes from staring at the scuffed-up tile floor to Sherlock’s eyes. They are full of a look that is far away. John’s only seen that look before when Sherlock was completely absorbed in a piece of music. This; this is something new. Sherlock is still wearing his band uniform, though his bow tie has been taken away from him. He has pulled the spats off of his shoes; they’ve been unceremoniously dumped in the corner beside an ancient toilet. Rust-colored droplets have stained Sherlock’s white shirt. John’s eyes are pulled back to Sherlock as he sits down hard on the bed then stands up again, his hands waving about, the picture of restless energy.

“Oh god. I _see_ it, John. Charlie was trying to borrow money from Lonny one night right after I started playing with them. They were both so quiet I couldn’t hear the conversation. It must be why Mollie changed the subject once I entered the room….she talked about how people were checking me out…I never thought to offer any assistance. “

He is pacing again, looking to John and the entire world like a madman or an opium addict. John shakes his head against the tide of emotions that keep trying to pull him under. He is starting to believe Sherlock which in turn leads to questions about his own powers of observation. Could this be why his job has been so unfulfilling as of late?

“Sherlock stop.” John watches as Sherlock’s entire forward momentum comes to a screeching halt. He shuts his mouth and freezes in the center of the cell. John holds up one hand. “I am starting to believe you. I don’t know how you came up with all of that information but I am going to check it out. I will be back in a couple of hours.” John turns his back to the cell and listens to the sound of the bunk groaning as Sherlock drops onto it. He doesn’t look back.

John calls in a bunch of favors to be allowed access to the morgue. It takes him two hours before he can get in to speak with the coroner. Finally the man agrees as long as John will bring an officer with him. John immediately asks his friend, Roger, to accompany him. Each man stands on either side of Charlie’s body as the coroner, a tall man with broad shoulders and surgeon’s hands, points out exactly what happened to the poor drummer. John is absolutely astounded to hear Sherlock’s words coming out of the coroner’s mouth. There are only two explanations: Sherlock saw it or there’s more to Sherlock’s mind than John has been giving him credit for. This young man who has inexplicably become a large part of John’s life is certainly more than a jazz player, that’s for sure. The answer to the first explanation is certainly one John truly doesn’t want to believe. The second one, though, that’s looking more and more likely.

John shakes hands with Roger, thanking him for his help. Roger knows that John generally doesn’t take on criminal cases, so he’s curious as to what’s going on. John answers him as honestly as he can: “As soon as I figure it out, Roger, you’ll be the second to know.” John takes one more look at Charlie’s body and leaves the morgue. This is really not his case; he probably shouldn’t even be involved. He is though, for better or for worse, and he will see it through to the end.

When John gets back to the jail, it is to be greeted by the sight of Sherlock sitting on the stone steps smoking. He watches John warily as if they haven’t been so close the last few months. Police officers move past them, some of them offering a short greeting in John’s direction. They seem oblivious to Sherlock. John isn’t. The majority of John’s anatomy certainly isn’t oblivious. His brain and his heart, however, are starting to figure out that he was wrong.

Sherlock just waits. He finishes the cigarette in his hand and stubs it out against the steps. He has leaned back with his weight on his elbows. John thinks of paintings he has seen in the past of Greek gods reclining on Mount Olympus.  In his mind, the image is one in the same.

“You’re out.” John says.

“They couldn’t hold me under suspicion any longer, John.” Sherlock’s gaze is steady.

“I’m sorry.” John expects anger, not this calm acceptance.

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders.  “I understand. I am sure others would have drawn the same conclusions from the evidence presented.”

John is taken aback. “Sherlock, I practically accused you of cold-blooded murder and all you are going to say to me is that _you understand_?”

“I’ve never been in this situation before, John. Besides all of this, I could _see_. I could see what happened to Charlie, I could see your point of view, I could even see through the eyes of the officer that rushed to the scene. What is this? What has happened to me?” Green eyes show the first glimmer of uncertainty.

“I don’t know.” John has to admit to himself to being shook up at the time. Once his head cooled he should have been able to read the evidence. Isn’t that what he did for a living? “Can we talk about this, Sherlock? I made a mistake.”

Sherlock gracefully gets to his feet. He is exhausted though his mind seems to be spinning with so much information. He studies John and can see everywhere the other man has been in the past two days; just by the way his shirt is hanging on his shoulders. He looks down at the top of John’s shoes. He has scuffed one across the top when he was standing beside the gurney holding Charlie’s body. Possibly because he jumped a little when the coroner collaborated with Sherlock’s own observations; something fundamental has happened to him: something has changed. Most importantly, though, he needs to know where he stands with John.

“Am I allowed to come home?” Sherlock inquires in a voice that John doesn’t recognize. His green eyes are vulnerable but his face is rigid, impassive, giving nothing away. John has never seen a person change so much in such a short span of time. This is a strange situation. He contemplates what’s happened in his mind, thinks that maybe the shock of seeing someone so brutally murdered has affected Sherlock at his core. He listens to what his heart and his head both have to say. No matter what, he is still the same young man that John woke up with a couple of days ago.

“Yes.” John steps in close to Sherlock’s cleaner side and hugs him, releasing him quickly before it can become a public issue. “Let’s go home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for such a short chapter today. I have some family obligations to fulfill, but please don't give up on me yet!


	8. Plain to See

It’s a couple of days later, about ten o’clock in the morning.

“John.” There is a deep voice beside him that is not quite muttering, not quite whispering in his ear. Then there’s a poke in the ribs. “John.” John gives a little grunt and rolls over onto his back. He peers through eyes that refuse to open against sunlight that’s just a little too bright this morning. Now there’s a poke in his belly. “John!” John grabs the long, thin digit trying to rouse him from sleep and promptly sticks in right into his mouth, giving it a good suck. For a moment, the deep voice goes completely quiet. Quiet enough that John can make out the sounds of pigeons cooing on the rooftop.

Well, until the rather long, lean body of a certain violin player is stretched out on top of John’s rather more naked one.  Sherlock is by no means fully dressed. John’s sleep addled mind would like to keep him that way. He wraps both arms around Sherlock and pulls him close like a child with a teddy bear. Sherlock lays his head against the side of John’s neck. John caresses the muscles of Sherlock’s back through the thin robe he’s wearing and Sherlock’s tongue does an interesting version of the Charleston against John’s neck. John moves his hand from Sherlock’s back up his neck and runs it through the mess of curls on top of his head. When Sherlock doesn’t tame his hair down with the tonic the way he does before a set, it is this mess of _something_ that just begs for John to put his fingers in it. Sherlock is almost purring against John’s neck at this point; a problem that John seems to be in no hurry to solve. He keeps his eyes closed while canting his hips slightly forward. Sherlock makes a soft moan. John grabs at Sherlock’s rear end with both hands, pushing him downward each time he rolls upward. Sherlock’s face moves from John’s neck to his face, his palms spread over John’s cheeks to reel him in and kiss him thoroughly.

They are just getting into a rhythm when there’s a heavy bang against the front door. John groans; Sherlock pulls himself up on his elbows to stare right into John’s face since he’s finally opened his eyes.

“John. That’s what I was trying to tell you about. Apparently there is an Officer Johnson on his way over, never mind: already here. He wants to talk to you about Charlie.”

John can’t help but want to step into those intense green orbs and drown himself. Sometimes it would be easier than dealing with the real world. “It’s not my case.” He rather pathetically whines.

Sherlock actually laughs. He gives John a quick kiss on the cheek then stands up, readjusting his robe. There’s another bang on the door and a gruff voice calling out.

“John Watson, you old sod, I know you are in there. I don’t give a damn how hard you hit the bottle last night. Open.” Bang. “This.” Bang. “Damn.” Bang. “Door.”

John sighs, giving up a nice leisurely morning as a bad job. He sits up and gropes about for his own robe.

Sherlock stands in the middle of the room, seemingly unsure at what to do. John calls out to him as he crosses into the bathroom. “It’s alright, go ahead and open up. I’ll be out to make coffee shortly.” He considers that coffee is probably the only edible thing in the kitchen right now. Well, except for Sherlock…John shakes off those thoughts as he closes the door in order to do his morning business.

Sherlock opens the door to find a short but well-built officer in his uniform with his arm raised ready to rap his knuckles against the wood again. “Good morning.” Sherlock offers in greeting, accidentally-on-purpose allowing his thick accent to work its way into both words. To his credit, Officer Arnie Johnson’s eyes go wide but he quickly regains control, settling for a look of “grumpy policeman.”

“Morning. Who are you and where is John?” Arnie is quick and to the point. Sherlock appreciates this.

“I am not the hired help, officer, if that’s what you are implying.” Sherlock waits until the man strides in and closes the door behind him. “John will be right out.” Sherlock leaves Arnie standing in the middle of the sitting room alone as he returns to the bedroom. Sherlock dresses quickly and reappears in grey trousers, a clean white button down shirt and a grey vest that has yet to be buttoned up. He hasn’t even attempted to tame his hair. He gives Arnie a little nod as he passes into the kitchen where he grabs the silver percolator and begins scooping coffee into it. Arnie pull out a chair at the little table and sits down, lacing his fingers together against the tabletop. Sherlock gives him a little nod over his shoulder, adds one more scoop of grounds then puts the pot on the stove while flicking on the burner.

“So, who are you anyway, kid?” Arnie tries to keep the irritation out of his voice at being made to wait so long. He fails. He reaches up and pulls off his hat; he sets it on the table.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a violin player over at the Blue Room.” Just for fun, Sherlock rolls his tongue over his “r’s.”

“Uh. Yes. That’s fine, but I am asking you how you know John.” Apparently, John and Arnie are _not_ the same in that aspect. Actually, there’s so much _not the same_ about the two of them: John’s hair is a golden halo shot through with white and grey while Arnie’s is almost pure white. Arnie makes a face and Sherlock figures he’s ignored the older man long enough.

Sherlock honestly doesn’t know how to answer that question. He can’t very well blurt out to a _cop_ that the first time he saw the rumpled figure that was John Watson was at Miriam’s place. He can’t explain that he really isn’t sure _what_ John considers him to be because they have never discussed it. How can he tell this man that things just sort of _happened_ and he wakes up everyday happier than he’s ever been in his entire life?

Sherlock turns his attention towards the weathered face and brown eyes of the officer sitting at the table and tries to give him an answer that will please him. He just begins to open his mouth when John rescues him.

John is feeling much better this morning than he has in a long time. He is wearing black trousers and a cream-colored shirt. His blue eyes are bright and he seems ready to start the day. He takes a deep sniff of the air as he enters the kitchen then walks right up to Sherlock. John reaches up one hand to Sherlock’s neck, gently pulling downward, a silent request for the taller man to lean down a bit. He plants a rather warm kiss on Sherlock’s lips then grabs three mugs from the cabinet.

Arnie’s burst of laughter is like a gunshot as he slaps one broad hand against the table. “I should have known, old man, I should have known. Gorgeous thing like that ain’t here to be doing your laundry, eh?” Arnie gives John a wink. John just shrugs a little as he puts the mugs down. Sherlock pulls out his own chair and drops into it, regarding John with an intense expression. John just smiles at him as he pours the coffee. Arnie hooks his mug on his little finger and lifts it to his mouth. Annoyingly, he smacks his lips like the brew is the best thing he’s ever tasted. Sherlock makes a face at him as he sips his own coffee. John just watches the two of them over the brim of his own mug.

“Let me properly introduce you: Sherlock, this is Officer Arnie Johnson, an old friend. Arnie, this is my partner, Sherlock Holmes.” A little grudgingly, Sherlock shakes Arnie’s hand. They both return to their respective cups quickly and turn to John. “Right. That’s out of the way, then. Arnie, what’s happening?”

Arnie takes a long drink. “Charlie Hamilton, the drummer in Lonny’s band? You knew him?”

John shakes his head back and forth. “No. I only knew him because Sherlock plays for Lonny.” John gestures in Sherlock’s direction with his cup.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, he’d rather see just where this conversation is headed.

“Well, I got a report that says you requested to view the body…”

“Yes, I did.” John clears his throat now. He feels like such an ass for believing Sherlock could kill someone that way that talking about it makes it worse. “Yes. I did, because there were several things Sherlock noticed about it that I wanted to collaborate on.”

“Oh?” Arnie looks at Sherlock as he lifts one eyebrow. His face seems to be set in stone, offering nothing.

“I found him, _Officer_. Well, Lonny and I did after Mollie burst into the club. She was distraught and incoherent. Lonny ran for help and I flipped Charlie over so I could see what was happening. I pulled the knife out of his neck, but the damage was done: it was too late.”

Arnie nodded in turn. That was exactly the information he had been given. “Why were you kept in a holding cell?”

With this, Sherlock turns his eyes toward John. John sighs and waves a hand in the air to give permission. “Officer Johnson, it was a misunderstanding. John erroneously believed that perhaps I was the one who dispatched poor Charlie.”

Arnie’s face swiveled to John so quick he almost gave himself whiplash. “You did?”

John blushed enough to let the entire Tri-state area know the embarrassment he was feeling. “Yeah. I did. Pretty stupid, too, considering how much evidence was actually present at the scene.”

“John, what’s going on with you? You haven’t been around the precinct and I know you haven’t been taking on hardly any cases. I know things went belly-up with you and Stephen…”

“That’s enough, Arnie. I really don’t want to talk about it.” John’s voice was stern and brooked no argument.

Arnie didn’t say anything else, though he did study John for a quiet moment before finishing his coffee. “Alright, then, Pauline is making a big supper Sunday if you are interested?”

John thinks it over. “Not this time, Arnie, not this time. I am still getting things sorted here.”

“That’s fine, John. Whenever you get a chance, I’m sure she would love to see you.” Arnie squashes his hat back on his head and gives John a wide grin. He lets himself out with a whistle on his lips.

“So then…” Sherlock begins.

John seriously still doesn’t want to talk about it. “Sherlock…”

“No, I think it is time I understand. The last important person in your life was a man named Stephen? Correct?” Sherlock’s eyes pin John down to his seat.

“Yes. Stephen Johnson.” John answers.

“Oh. Then Arnie’s wife? She’s Stephen’s sister?”

John can’t keep the admiration out of his voice, though he’s a bit concerned as to how Sherlock came by that information.

“No, John, I couldn’t have asked anyone about that. I’ve just learned the man’s name today.” Sherlock’s little insights are starting to make John believe that the other man is reading his mind.

“Fine.” John crosses his arms across his chest. “Fine, it’s all fine. Yes, Stephen was my lover of almost a year. Pauline was…no, is Stephen’s sister. We used to all kind of pal around together, but after Stephen left, I….”

“I understand, John.” Sherlock is now right in John’s space. He is leaning over John’s chair, his hands on John’s shoulders. He leans in as if to kiss John but John doesn’t think he can take it right now. He pushes Sherlock away and stands up so fast that the chair hits the floor with a thud.

“Look, I need a little space for the moment. Go to work tonight, have a good set. I’ll see you later.” John rushes out the door so fast that he forgets his hat. Sherlock just stands alone in the kitchen and stares at the door, bewildered. Strangely, he can still hear the lyrics from the song that Mollie ended their set with last night. Even though she is struggling with her grief, Sherlock knows she has nowhere else to be. He closes his eyes and leans against the table, remembering the words and her tears.

_Everybody loves my baby,_   
_But my baby don't love nobody but me._   
_Nobody but me._   
_Everybody wants my baby,_   
_But my baby don't want nobody but me_   
_That's plain to see._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics to "Everybody Loves my Baby" (C) Jack Palmer, 1924.


	9. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You guys know I like to write about the *hard stuff,* be warned, this might be a rough ride for some of you. I would apologize, but I won't.

“How’s things with you and John, cat?” Lonny asks as he pounds a big hand against Sherlock’s back while they are together in the green room that night. Once again they are immaculate in their glossy black suits, white gloves and spats. Mollie has already breezed in and out of the room. Each of them attempted to talk to her but like she was the night before, she just looks through them, nods her head to any words spoken in her direction then goes to the stage. After the set she is gone. They have been playing four or five sets each night, though Mollie generally only sings for one of them. Both men know that tonight will be no different.

Sherlock doesn’t answer right away; Lonny gives him an understanding look. “Sherlock, John is, well, he’s different.” Lonny adjusts the banjo strap around his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Sherlock levels an unwavering stare at the band leader. Once again he is completely unsure of what to say, this is water he is unsure how to tred.

“Just give him time, alright? He had a bad relationship…”

Sherlock holds up a hand to stop him. “Lonny. It’s alright. I know. The last few days have been trying, right?”

Lonny gives him a nod and they leave the green room together.

They take their places on the small stage while Andrew taps out a beat on the floor with his foot. They launch into an old Ragtime number as the throng of dancers on the floor begins to swell and recede like the tide. Mollie sings a couple of songs and disappears. They are a third of the way into their fourth set of the evening when Sherlock’s attention is drawn to the entrance. John has slipped into the dance hall and he looks stunning in a well-fitting black suit. Sherlock misses a couple of notes, catches Lonny’s eyes with his own when Lonny turns towards him. Lonny follows Sherlock’s line of sight and gives a low whistle even while his hands pluck out notes on his banjo. He gives Sherlock a wink in silent acknowledgement.

At the end of the number, Lonny steps up to the microphone and tells the crowd that they are going to take a short break. There’s a bit of laughter and the sound of many pairs of feet moving towards the refreshment table: lady’s heels and the soles of men’s brogues smacking a firm beat across the wooden dance floor in the silence of the room when the band stops playing. A new sound, too, as Sherlock’s heels thwack against the wood as he races over to where John stands by the doorway.

John turns to him with a grin so wide it threatens to split his face in twain. He holds his arms out and Sherlock steps into them with the grace of a dancer. John pulls him close for a moment as a little electric thrill runs through their bodies at being together again. Sherlock smiles down at him and then lurches, almost falling into John’s chest.

John shifts his weight to accommodate Sherlock, who has just been pat on the back by three smiling men: Andrew, Lonny, and Aaron.

“Hey, you ought to sit this next one out, Sherlock. You haven’t been on the dance floor in a while.” Andrew grins in the semi-darkness of the room, his very white teeth gleaming against his dusky skin.

“Yeah, man, that’s a great idea! Let’s play something for them!” Andrew smiles as he heads back to the stage.

Lonny just grins at them and shouts over to Andrew: “Anything to make you happy!” The three of them launch into a rather happy, jaunty tune that John can’t help but feel is appropriate.

Sherlock sweeps them across the dance floor like he owns it. They don’t dance too intimately, though they can both feel the heat from each others’ bodies nonetheless. To Sherlock, the feeling is new and shiny; he can feel his heart swelling as they move round the room. He has never been this proud of anything the way he is at having this man in his arms. Other dancers smile at them and they are riding on the waves of the music: in and out. To John, this is not a new feeling but one very much buried far below the surface…something he is experiencing _again_ , though this time it’s warmer, closer and very much a living thing: a living thing that he can hold and nurture; but will probably never have the words to explain. The beauty of it certainly outshines the darkness of the past that has threatened to take over his mind earlier.

Before they’ve even realized it, they have swept the dance floor through half the set and Sherlock has to get back to business. The band gives him and John a standing ovation as Sherlock gives John a little peck on the lips. Other dancers have stopped and are clapping as well, making a short walkway for Sherlock to return to his playing. He climbs up the two steps to the stage and takes a little bow before moving to his stool, picking up his violin and nodding to Lonny before starting the next song. John pretty much has his pick of partners after that; none of them begrudge the fact that his eyes remain on Sherlock throughout the rest of the evening. John takes in every movement of the lean figure, considers the beauty of the music as Sherlock’s eyes slip closed on the quieter pieces.

After the last song is played and the club begins to empty out of patrons, John stands against the wall and just watches Sherlock. He takes in every single movement the other man makes, from shaking hands with Lonny and Aaron, nodding to Andrew and thanking him for the chance to dance with John, bending at his slim waist to pick up the violin case from the floor next to his stool, to looking up and seeing John from across the room. Sherlock’s green eyes light up from across the dim room like a tiger in a dark jungle. John has fallen so hard, so completely and so fast that he just _knows_ that this, whatever this is, is going to end hard for both of them. Sherlock is young, though, perhaps with time he’ll get over it…

John frowns to himself as his lover reaches him, his pale features flush with bliss in only the way sex and music playing paints them. In that very second, gazing into the intense green oceans of those eyes, John decides that he most emphatically doesn’t want _this_ to end. He doesn’t want Sherlock to have to _get over it_. Never. He will somehow learn to tamp down his uglier impulses and forget the past, just to have this beautiful creature by his side. He is eager to see what Sherlock will _be_.

~o~

Long in the wee hours of the morning when the darkness had yet to be taken by a new light John Watson slept fitfully in the arms of his young lover. Sherlock held him close and whispered nothings into his ears; the action calming John enough to relax and let rest take over. It was after Sherlock scooted out of bed and into the bathroom for a shower that John’s dreams reached out like a corpse at the bottom of a lake and tried to drown him.

_John finds himself alone on a hill overlooking a creek. There are trees all around him, soft animal sounds in the darkness of a summer night in Georgia. He is fifteen years old again, he and his friend George lying on their backs staring at a sky that is resplendent with millions of tiny fires in the zenith. George is laughing, telling John about a girl that he met across the way. Her name is Violet and she’s the most beautiful girl in the whole city of Savannah, the whole state of Georgia, by God! John is laughing, he is so happy for his friend. George and John have known each other for several years, ever since John’s parents moved them here from Indiana. John’s father has moved several times for his job, though it has never been a negative thing for John. He has made friends in several states and enjoys celebrating the differences in people all over._

_Of course, John Watson is a unique sort of person, even at that age._

_He tries to see the good in everyone: black, white, Asian, Indian; when John looks at a person the first thing he sees is their eyes. To him, the measure of someone is if they look at you with honest intent. He considers these things as he watches George clamber up from the ground and do a happy little jig there in the meadow below where the cows graze. George’s brown eyes are so happy, so full of life!_

_The rest of the night is a blur in John’s memory. An oily patch of pavement that he desperately tries to avoid in his weak hours: a part of his life that he never wants Sherlock to see. Sherlock not only comes from another country across the ocean, he comes from another world. Or at least he does, in John’s mind._

_John remembers the men who draped themselves in white sheets and hid their faces like the cowards they are. He remembers the bright orange, red, and yellow of their torches; the screams ripped from George’s throat when they hit him over the back and knocked him face-first into the dirt of the meadow. He remembers fighting one of the men, a man with hands like hams and foul breath that smelled like a distillery and trying to get to his friend. Distantly, he remembers George crying that he and John were just friends, they were just_ talking _for God’s sake and who are you, you hidden bastards?_

 _John can still hear George crying, George actually fighting to get back to him against the wall of hate that separates them. John rages and manages to shake off two of the men but then he_ sees _…_

_He sees._

_It is what he sees that changes him deeply; changes him at the core, the rest of his life will never be the same. He will continue to walk around in a John Watson-shaped skin but he will forever after feel like he can never do_ enough _to save those around him that he cares about. He will chase off lovers by holding them too tightly, constantly following them around, showing up at any hour wherever they may be…_

 _Because of that bastard in the white sheet with his pants down around his ankles, that bastard and the other bastards who held down his friend and screamed about how “… them niggers will rape our women, let’s show them…” and worse things that John blocks from his memories even now. John is allowed to wake long enough to_ see _and to know that there isn’t a damned thing that his fifteen-year old self can do to help. He is knocked out again with a single punch from the laughing monster at his side, the man holding John’s head up by his hair, letting him_ see _._

_When they finally leave, it is the sound of hoof beats wakes John from the depths of unconsciousness. For a time he is unsure where he is; it all comes back to him in a rush. The lack of angry slurs and humorless laughter is a quiet like a crypt. John pushes himself to his feet, his head spinning, he wants to vomit. He needs to find George._

_Oh god! George! Not far from him, John finds George face-down on the ground, a noose tight around his neck. Blood spatters down his torn trousers and shirt. John rolls him over, George’s eyes flutter open…but it’s too late, it’s too late. The joyous fire of life has been extinguished…and for what? an ancient fool’s hatred that should have died a century before…John holds George’s body and weeps, his tears running down George’s ebony chest to mix with the blood that is as red as any other human being’s…_

John is yanked from his dream memories and jerked into the overbearing brightness of his bedroom in Chicago. Its twenty years later. John’s mind whirls and jerks and bucks like a man fighting his self-imposed bonds. He weeps loudly, grasping the thin arms that hold him tight. He shakes his head back and forth in an effort to stem the damage; the thoughts that surely now, _now_ that Sherlock sees him for what he is…for what is he if he is not his memories? Now his young lover will leave him alone, realizing that there are better fish in the sea…fish who dare swim deeper than he can ever hope to go. He is weeping, then he is choking; being forced to sit up and look into intense green eyes full of life and caring and John is weeping again. He weeps for the things that have been, that made him who he is today and the things that he can never take back.

Finally, the fever of horrible memories passes and John is left hollow, sitting naked in his bed surrounded by twisted sheets and pillows thrown to the floor. But there is more. There is the sound of a heartbeat near his ear. He raises one hand to Sherlock’s bare chest and wipes away some of his own tears. He listens to the deep rumble of a voice that means more to him now than his own life.

“You are here with me now, John.” Sherlock’s voice is quiet, soft, reaching out to John as if offering him air to breathe. John reaches for it hungrily. His hollowness needs to be refilled. Sherlock reaches out to him, two fingers under his chin and turns John’s face upward. When their lips meet in a tender show of affection and _solidarity_ John knows that Sherlock is staying. He knows Sherlock will not ask for more than he can offer but he wants to pull his heart out of his chest and offer it up to this beautiful man as if he is an ancient Mayan priest: _take it, I don’t need it, take it, it’s yours_ with each beat.

Sherlock sighs softly against his cheek as he pulls him down to the mattress. John pillows his head on the bare chest and closes his eyes as Sherlock’s hands come around his back. He hums a little and John recognizes the tune of “Anything to Make You Happy.” When he finally succumbs to sleep, a tiny smile lights up his tear-stained face; there are soft lips against his forehead and he is hollow no longer: shared memories are easier to bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that was rough. It was rough to write; I think you can all see where he's coming from now. Thank you for sticking around!


	10. Back Again

John and Sherlock’s relationship takes a shift for the better in the coming weeks. By Christmas they feel like they have known each other their entire lives. John has been taking on more complicated cases and Sherlock has begun to show an avid interest in them. There are some nights he even swears off playing with the band in order to sneak around and gather evidence with John. John is astounded at how quickly Sherlock picks up on even the minutest details. Over the past few months, John has even been asked by the local precinct to look over one or two little cases, with the unsaid requirement that he bring Sherlock along.

It seems as if they are forging a timeless partnership.

On Christmas Day they are to be found once again completely absorbed in each other in John’s bed. Sherlock’s endless legs are wrapped tightly around John’s waist as John slowly rolls his hips, carefully brushing his cock against Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock tilts his head back and cants his pelvis forward, meeting each of John’s thrusts with his own. He tightens his legs, squeezing against John’s waist, changing the angle where they are connected and effectively forcing John into him even deeper.  The sound of Sherlock’s moans cause a vibration that John can _feel_ through his cock and up into his groin.

John is sweating even against the coolness of the room. Sherlock’s legs are like a vise, heat pouring off of his body. John’s arms are shaking, the muscles tensed almost to the point of collapsing. It’s good, though, it’s all just fine when Sherlock shifts his legs and literally pushes John’s body forward and their lips meet. John’s back bows in an arch as Sherlock bows upward; they would be almost a circle to an outsider looking in. Teeth and tongues clash, their breathing is harsh, uneven. John reaches between them and strokes the length of Sherlock’s hardness once, twice, three times, on the forth stroke Sherlock’s head is thrown back impossibly farther and crushes his raven curls into the pillow as he all but screams when a thick stream of come paints his abdomen.

John speeds up the snap of his hips, pushing into a new rhythm as Sherlock cannot do much else but hang on for the ride. John comes with a growl and a bruising bite to Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock’s hands splay across John’s back and hold him as the final shudders of his orgasm race down his spine. John’s bite slowly turns from a prick of pain into a sloppy open-mouthed kiss. It will most certainly leave a bruise. Neither man is too concerned: they have nowhere else to be today.

After a time, John is flaccid enough to gently extract himself; Sherlock moans again and covers his eyes with his arms. John grabs a wash cloth from the closet and Sherlock tries to force his muscles to move when he hears the sound of the faucet running. John is back and cleaning him up before he has managed to do more than open his eyes. He peers up at John who finishes his cleaning and merely drops the cloth on the floor next to the bed before climbing up next to Sherlock. John is flat on his back with his arms crossed over his chest when Sherlock rolls onto his side, resting his head on the palm of his hand. He touches John’s cheek carefully as if the other man will break. John opens his eyes and turns his head towards Sherlock. He wants so much to lay his heart bare and just tell Sherlock _everything_ , but there are just too many years without words that are in between them. Instead he elects to sigh as Sherlock’s hand caresses his neck, chest, abdomen, and the long fingers finally card through his coarse pubic hair. There’s no way John’s going to be able to hold an erection for long in such a short time since his last orgasm; he grasps Sherlock’s wrist and pulls his hand up to his mouth, giving it a kiss across the back of it. John pulls Sherlock closer and the younger man rests his arm across John’s chest. John buries his nose in Sherlock’s wild mane, taking a deep breath.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.” John’s voice is clear but far away on the brink of sleep.

“Happy Christmas, John.” Sherlock mumbles against John’s chest. Little puffs of air against bare skin make John smile and they slip into a comfortable nap.

~o~

Later that day they have both showered and dressed lightly. John is puttering about the kitchen in an attempt to bake a ham. Sherlock is perched in one of the chairs in the sitting room with his violin on his shoulder. His eyes are closed and he has just raised the bow when the peace of the day is shattered by a loud thump at the front door.

“Goddammit!” John curses as he drops something heavy that shatters against the tiles. Sherlock is at his side in split seconds, ignoring the second knock.

“Here let me.” Sherlock pushes John out of the way so that he can grab the broom and clean up the broken crockery.  Something inside him says that it’s better if John answers the door. He makes out the sounds of a simple greeting and then a low, deep voice speaking to John. John’s answer is slightly muffled. Sherlock stops what he is doing and leans against the counter. There is the sound of the door opening and closing again, John’s footsteps returning to the kitchen.

He stops in the entrance with his hands on his hips. Sherlock looks up from his study of the kitchen floor into blue eyes that have gone stormy.

“There’s been another murder: this time a young woman from the club. Same thing as Charlie, only this time the police and the newspapers are all over it.” John’s face is closed off, anger just barely simmering under the surface.

“Are we….?” Sherlock begins.

John snorts loudly. “No. Not this time. There are enough people around that the police think they may have a description of the murderer. “

“Right. Then…?” Sherlock is mystified as to what is different about this case. He had been under the impression that Charlie’s homicide was still open; going by the look on John’s face the last time he had asked about it, apparently not.

“Sherlock, you are way more intelligent than _that_. Tell me. What’s the biggest difference between these two murders? Both of these people were killed in exactly the same manner. Besides the obvious, of course. One male, one female. What is the difference?” John’s voice is stern, his mouth drawn tight.

Sherlock considers everything that makes the man in front of him who he is. He thinks about John’s past and what little bit he knows about it; he thinks about John’s heart and…oh.

“Charlie is black and this woman is white.” Sherlock says without taking his eyes off of John’s face.

John nods. “Right.”


	11. Twisted in Knots

“There _will_ be another one.” Sherlock states as he hands John a cup of coffee over the stack of newspapers they have piled on the kitchen table. He settles into the chair at the end and pulls a stack of them towards himself. There has been no mention of Charlie’s death nor any of the events surrounding it, but the details surrounding the latest victim, a young woman named Mary Smith (of all things) are in every single edition of the next day’s papers. It is late in the afternoon and they will not be able to get the evening edition for an hour or so yet.

It’s December 26, 1925 as all the papers obnoxiously proclaim though John feels so far removed from the joy of the season that it’s pitiful. Even after the things he has witnessed in his short thirty-five, soon to be thirty-six years, he still has a hard time wrapping his brain around the idea that a person is less human based on the color of their skin or country of their birth. It leeches all of the joy from the air around him and makes him want to go and tackle this murderer bare-handed.

Sherlock makes an irritated growl and shoves the whole pile of papers into the floor with a flourish. “I’m done.” He says as he turns on his bare toes and stomps out of the kitchen. John can hear his footsteps as he moves through the bedroom and into the bathroom. Sherlock is due to play at the club tonight but John is having a hard time with the thought of letting the other man out of his sight. He sighs to himself, _Here I go again_. He’s got to find a way to deal with this over possessive _thing_ that lives in his chest. Sherlock is a grown man, albeit a young one, and can take care of himself. For just a second, Charlie’s face, devoid of life, springs into the forefront of his mind.

“I am going with you tonight.” John calls out, knowing that Sherlock can hear him over the shower. When no answer is forthcoming, John heads to the bedroom to change into something more suitable. He stands in front of his closet for a moment, considering what few suits he actually owns like he’s waiting on one of them to just jump into his arms as a suggestion.

Of course that never really happens.

What does happen is that during John’s contemplation of his garments, Sherlock has moved up behind him and wrapped his long arms around John’s waist. A very wet head of riotous curls lies between John’s shoulder blades; he feels water dripping down his back. After a moment, Sherlock moves to stand beside John, dressed in nothing but a towel draped casually about his slim hips. John is no longer looking at the closest. At this point, his clothing has lost any interest that it held for him at all. Sherlock is flipping through John’s clothes, finally settling on a dark-blue pinstriped number after sliding the other suits out of the way; really out of the way, as in all the way down the other end of the closet.

“Here.” He holds the suit out to John whose eyes are anywhere but on the clothes. After an agonizing moment, John realizes that Sherlock hasn’t moved but now has the prettiest blush across his cheeks that anyone could ever ask for. John lays a hand against Sherlock’s nape and presses their lips together as he makes quick work of the knot Sherlock has twisted into the towel. Things are beginning to get a little steamy when there’s a knock at John’s door. John pulls himself out of the hot revelry and lets go of Sherlock’s bare behind with a sound like a mixture of a growl and a groan rising from his throat.

“Dammit.” He mutters under his breath as he stalks to answer. Sherlock remains where he is standing in order to get himself under control before getting dressed. He is in front of the bathroom mirror taming his hair down with a comb and a bottle of tonic when he notices John standing in the doorway. He flicks his green eyes away from his reflection, arm held above his head with a black comb between his fingers, to John.

“Sherlock, that was Roger, another policeman friend of mine.” Sherlock doesn’t answer, though his eyes light up in a curious fashion. He keeps combing and patting at his hair with his head dipped down slightly to see all of it in the mirror.

John wants to reach out and mess up Sherlock’s neat coif that is now more raven waves than rebellious ringlets. Instead he sighs and watches him put an even part down his scalp like Moses moved the Red Sea. It lasts all of three seconds as it springs back to where it had been before. Sherlock scowls at himself. John chuckles. Sherlock spins around to fix John with a belligerent stare that gets him absolutely nowhere.

“You look gorgeous, as always. Let it be.” John reassures him, stepping back to allow Sherlock to move through the doorway. John rests a palm against the small of Sherlock’s back. He begins dressing himself as he talks. Sherlock sits on the bed and ties up his bowtie, taking note of the way the fading sunlight makes John’s hair into a golden halo. He’s daydreaming just a little when he realizes that John is wanting on an answer of some sort.

When Sherlock doesn’t answer, John snaps his fingers until the green gaze comes back to the present. “Do you have a problem with me acting as extra security at the club tonight?”

“No, why would I?” Sherlock is fully back in the moment now. He’s finished with his bow tie and pulling his white spats over his shoes.

“It’s just that I was going tonight to try and keep an eye on _you_.” John’s mouth snaps shut with a force so hard his ear drums ring.

Sherlock doesn’t look up at John. “I understand that; since you are going to be there as my bodyguard, might as well help out all the club goers, no?”

John thinks that’s the best answer he could have received. It seems that Sherlock is willing to let John’s possessive side take the reins occasionally without getting too upset about it. Sherlock finishes with his shoes and stands up. John straightens his lapels and runs a hand down the back of Sherlock’s jacket. He steps away from the other man so that Sherlock might go and retrieve his violin case.

Once Sherlock is out of the room, John opens the bottom drawer of his night stand and gently removes the silver Colt revolver that Roger gave him a few years ago. He checks to make sure it’s loaded then pops open a box of bullets, dropping several of them into his wide-legged trouser pockets. The gun goes into a special pocket that he’s had sewn into all of his jackets since the second year of Prohibition. Just because he’s a private dick doesn’t make him a stupid one; he’s got enough friends on the force that have seen the mess that the city can be to know he’s not facing anything so malevolent without it.

John meets Sherlock at the door and they move down the steps together, John’s shoulder gently brushing against Sherlock’s arm. John holds out his hand and Sherlock gives him the violin case so that it is swinging on the outside and not between them. At one point, Sherlock draws slightly closer to his lover and feels the new bulge underneath John’s jacket. Their eyes meet as they get to the club but Sherlock doesn’t ask any questions. The copper doors open from the inside. A new doorman stands out of the way and gives them a small nod as they pass him by. They part just in front of the dance hall, their fingers not quite touching as John hands Sherlock his case; a small smile quirks up the corners of Sherlock’s mouth as he heads to the green room.

John watches Sherlock walk away from him with a burst of pride in his chest that such a wonderful creature could belong to him. He takes up his place along the wall closest to the dance hall entrance as agreed. People enter the dance hall in groups of twos and threes; women, men, black, white; a mix of everyone really. Many of them are dressed in the red and green colors of the season. John considers it a pretty good sample of what Chicago has to offer to the world. He shifts his feet a little, reacquainting himself with the firearm lying against his rib cage. He thinks about how different he feels now, even from just a year ago. He was starting to believe that he had nothing to live for and a job that he was beginning to despise. Sherlock has turned it all around by not allowing John the chance to walk away. Other people might see that as unhealthy; who were they to judge his relationships in the first place?

That was always part of his problem and he knows it well. Besides the memories that he has had to deal with, there’s always been that overwhelming need to possess his lovers. Maybe he will lose that need in time, but for now he’s going to enjoy what he’s got.

He is certainly enjoying it, too. The band has taken their accustomed places on the little stage and John notes that they have a new drummer. Lonny introduces him to the crowd as Benjamin. The crowd gives him a round of applause and he sits down to start the first set. It isn’t long before the place is swinging, John’s eyes roving over the crowd. He notes with a tad of apprehension that Mollie is nowhere to be seen. Apparently, she’s been showing up less and less in the past few months. He feels sorry for her and wonders if there’s anything he could do. He has no idea where she lives; perhaps he and Sherlock could talk to Lonny and see what the band leader thinks would help her out.

Right in the middle of the set, Sherlock stands up for his first solo of the night. His eyes are closed and his entire body is moving with the motion of his playing. Soon, Lonny joins in and the banjo and violin pretty much steal the stage. By the time it’s over, both men are grinning at each other like loons, the light from the chandelier above them dancing merrily across light and dark features. The crowd claps loudly and some people even give a few shouts and wolf-whistles. Lonny announces their first break of the night and soon Sherlock is by John’s side, his back towards the busy room.

~o~

Mollie Bess Hamilton stands on a chair in the center of her tiny sitting room. She has carefully twisted and tied a sheet around her neck and thrown the end of it around the light fixture on the ceiling. Her mind is a deep abyss of grief and loneliness. Charlie had been her best friend, husband, and lover for so long; now she felt so removed from anyone and anything. She hasn’t even been to the club to sing in almost a month—now even that seems to have left her. Tears roll down her face as she lovingly strokes the noose she has made for herself. _Their_ sheets: one of the last remaining things from the hope chest that she had put together over several years before they had wed.

Mollie’s hands twist in their neat white gloves as she places one foot on the back of the chair. She thinks about the life they had, the life she loved so much, the child they lost: a loss only made bearable by the way Charlie stayed by her side. He was there through it all, holding her hand, holding her close, holding her heart that was shattering into millions of tiny fragments.

Now he’s gone.

Mollie can’t take it one more second. Even if she never sees her beloved again, at least there will be no more of this terrible, crushing pain. She moves on graceful dancer’s feet and tilts the chair out from underneath herself. The twisted sheet-noose tightens around her neck.


	12. How to Save a Life

Lonny pounds his meaty hand against Mollie’s front door. He can hear the sound of it echoing off of the walls of the apartment and the reverberating is making him even more uneasy. After speaking with John and Sherlock, Lonny had decided that it was time to go and check on Mollie. The creepy feeling he’s had all day caught up with him as soon as John mentioned that it was the day after Christmas. Sherlock went back to the band so that Lonny could slip out. Mollie’s apartment is only a short walk from the club and he wonders why he had not come sooner. He eyes the grey stone building with trepidation; its dull, lifeless colors seem to be mocking him.

Lonny slams his fist against the wood one more time then turns to John standing behind him. John’s eyes are bright, the emotions held in firm control. He doesn’t know Mollie as well as Sherlock, but from everything that his lover has told him, he feels like he knows her well enough. In any event, he surmises that she is probably lonely and still hurting. He will never forget those emotions.

In a moment John will know how right he is.

Lonny does not say anything to him, merely nods as he steps sideways to the door and smashes against it with all of his considerable strength. It crashes inward with the force of dynamite bringing down rocks in order to create a highway. Dust and splinters of wood fall across his tuxedo-clad shoulders. He shakes his head to brush them off like a bull shaking off raindrops: they mean nothing to him. Lonny rushes into the place with John right on his well-shined heels.

The sight that greets the two men in the light from the streetlamps outside the ruined door causes both of their knees to shake. Lonny is fast but John is quicker off the mark as he runs to Mollie and grabs her kicking legs, forcing her body upward so there is less pull on her neck. She is gasping for air but not making any attempt to pull at what’s choking her, rather her hands just hang limply at her sides. Her eyes are closed. John recognizes someone who has completely given up but he doesn’t have time to reflect on it right now. Right now he knows that he’s got to concentrate on the life that is slowly slipping out of the slight body that is trembling in his arms.

 Lonny is like a raging tornado as he runs to to the kitchen and returns in record time with a very large knife. He quickly turns the chair back over and climbs into it. In a second the twisted sheet is cut clean through and Mollie and John land with a thud on the floor. John is pulling at the noose, yanking it away from Mollie’s neck as gently as possible under the circumstances. As it comes away from her caramel skin John can see the faint stain of crimson where the lace has cut into her throat.

Lonny’s brown eyes fill with sorrow as they sweep about the room taking it everything when he flicks on a lamp.  All at once it all seems to freeze. He can feel a single bead of sweat falling down his forehead. He can see is breath in front of his face as the cold seeps into the room. In his mind, things crystallize. He’s not been a good friend, instead focusing on his own grief instead of focusing on the lives of the living. He never looked for Sherlock the night that the young man spent in jail, and he has completely ignored Mollie’s cries for help. In short, he’s been a complete ass and it is time to change.

Things will not be this way any longer. The world spins back into clarity in Lonny’s mind as he sprints out the door, bellowing at the top of his lungs for help. Mollie and Charlie have never had a telephone, but there is a red police box not far outside. Lonny almost bowls over the policeman on duty who is in the middle of his shift walking the beat in his headlong sprint for the box. Arnie Johnson holds up a hand to stop the human tank from running him over. Lonny comes to a complete halt and launches into his story, trusting the man even though they have never met before this moment.

“You say John Watson is with you?” Arnie asks, trying to soothe the big man so he can understand him clearly; warm air making puffs in the frigid air as he speaks. Any friend of John’s is a friend of his.

“Yes.” Lonny nods and wipes the sweat off of his forehead with the back of one brown hand.

Arnie doesn’t say anything else but rushes to the box, yanking the telephone off the hook. Lonny doesn’t hang around, instead tearing back up to Mollie’s apartment.

John is still sitting on the floor holding Mollie, though he has managed to get the sheet the rest of the way off of her neck. It hangs down like some sort of sad necklace but Lonny doesn’t dwell on it. He lays a palm across her forehead and speaks quietly while John rocks her back and forth.

“I think she’s going to make it. I don’t see too much damage, though she may not be able to sing for a while.” John says whispers reverently, gently touching his fingers against her cold face. Instinctively, he pulls her thin body closer in to his in an attempt to keep her warm.

It’s all over in minutes once the ambulance arrives. They make their statements and Lonny asks if he can ride to the hospital with Mollie, since she apparently has no one else and the woman is in no state to speak up on her own behalf. Suddenly, John is very much alone in the little place. He walks around getting his thoughts together before he picks up the now-tattered lace sheet. Outside he throws it into the first trash can he can find, slamming the metal lid hard enough to make a dog start barking somewhere. His only thought now is to get back to the club and get back to Sherlock.

Full darkness has fallen as he makes his way back to the Blue Room. The sidewalks and alleys are quiet, there is very little traffic of any sort on the roads tonight. Thankfully there hasn’t been much snow so that walking is relatively unhampered by slush. Soon John’s hands are buried in his trouser pockets. He looks up at the ebony sky, his thoughts just as cloudy. Tonight there are no stars.

John stops outside the copper doors of the club and soaks in the warm strains of the jazz being played inside. It really is a wonderful sound he thinks as he opens the doors himself. The doorman rushes over from the archway where he’s been enjoying the melodies, as well. John gives him a smile, letting him know that’s he’s not about to rat him out. He moves back into his original spot and the other man who had stepped into it when he left with Lonny returns his nod, moving farther down the wall. John is grateful for the help and he is most certainly grateful _to_ be helping. He leans against the wall and closes his eyes, letting the sounds of the crowd and the music wash away some of the hurt he’s still feeling from seeing someone in enough pain to attempt to end their life. Some locked-away part of him admires her courage at the same time it cries out that life is precious and shouldn’t be wasted. But he admits that he hasn’t walked a day in her shoes so he quickly squashes that train of thought. It’s too close to his own reality, or rather what his reality had been.  

Half of John’s brain is lost in thought whilst the other half continues to scan the dance hall for any trouble. He is so intent on observing the behaviors of the crowd that he almost jumps out of his skin when Sherlock appears like a well-dressed phantom in front of him. John’s hand instinctively goes for the revolver but somehow Sherlock worked that out and has grabbed him by the wrist ahead of the movement, the long fingers creating a warm cuff that pulls John out of his bubble.  

“John.” Sherlock whispers quietly. John snaps back to the present to see that the club is emptying out. Lonny had sent word ahead of Mollie’s condition and the band decided to shut down early tonight. The two of them and a few stragglers are all that remain in the dance hall. Sherlock studies John’s face before running his hand across John’s chest. John suppresses the shiver that threatens to force its way from his brain to his groin before he realizes that Sherlock has a tiny droplet of blood on the end of his index finger.

“She was hurt bad, Sherlock. The lace had cut into her throat. It actually stretched more than she intended, I think.” John offers; his voice much calmer than it really feels like it should be.

“Let’s go home.”

As they walk home, John gives Sherlock a quick run-down of the situation. Sherlock asks if they should go to the hospital.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather just be alone with _you_ for a while, thanks.” John mutters.

“That’s acceptable.” Sherlock states as he pulls John closer to his side with one hand around the shorter man’s shoulders. John takes a deep breath and sags against his lover. When they reach John’s brownstone, John lets them in. Sherlock breezes past him into the kitchen to set his violin case on the table. He shrugs out of his overcoat and then his jacket and drops them both beside the case.

John finds himself still standing at the front door with his back to the sitting room. He seems to be frozen in the act of closing the door. Sherlock gently pries John’s fingers off of it and closes it. He pulls John around so that he can look down into his tear-stained face. Sherlock pulls him in close and just holds him. John wants to say so many things to this wonderful, amazing, marvelous creature but he has lost words. He wants to tell Sherlock that this is precisely the reason he can never be a cop: because he does well in the middle of a stressful situation but then breaks down as soon as the crisis has passed. He wants to tell Sherlock that he will always protect him and that he no longer can live his life without him. He feels like he should tell his lover all of these things so that neither of them feel they need to go out the way Mollie attempted tonight.

John says none of those things, however. He lets Sherlock comfort him. He lets Sherlock pull him into the bedroom and undress him slowly, warm palms caressing muscles forced tight with tension as each piece of clothing drops to the floor. Sometimes a kiss is planted on a shoulder blade, the nape of his neck, his forehead. Sherlock is telling John all of those things that neither of them have the ability to just say.  

When they finally curl up in John’s bed, he is drowsy from warmth that is slowly spreading through his body that has absolutely nothing to do with the thick blankets but rather the lean naked body wrapped around his own. He closes his eyes and inhales the smell of Sherlock’s hair tonic, the club, and the wintry night that surrounds them like a shield. Sherlock is spread out across John’s chest, his face as close to John’s heart as he can get it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the angst, I really am. It just happened, please don't beat me with too many wet noodles. I have a great silly joke for you though: What is Cadbury? Answer: Chocolate with a funny accent. (Or the *right* accent, depending on who you are!)  
> Did that help? It's not over yet, not by a longshot. Thank you all for hanging in there and reading and commenting and oh! I just love you all for allowing me to broaden my horizons. Thank you!


	13. Making Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little short because I don't want the next one to be cut in half. You are all amazing and wonderful and you all say --the nicest things-- I'm so thrilled to be here. Please note that the song lyrics in this chapter are real and they were written in 1922. I have no way of knowing whether the song was performed in the 1920s with the lyrics, because most of what I can find on the tube of you are old record recordings (no that's not a mistake) of the Farewell Blues as an instrumental piece. You really ought to give it a listen, even the modernized versions. Apparently, its still a popular tune in some circles...which makes it hard to believe it took me so long to find actual lyrics for it. Anyway, thanks for listening to me ramble!  
> Now to the story...

It is another cold night a few weeks later; New Years’ has come and gone and a real Midwestern winter is threatening to close down the city. There are several inches of snow on the ground; the days seem to be as cold with the sun shining on the piles of snow as the nights have become. The first few days of the storm, John and Sherlock are cooped up at the brownstone. It isn’t too bad, at first. A little smoking, a lot of sex and a nice bottle of wine will keep them busy—for a while.

Tonight they are driving each other up the wall. Sherlock has actually taken to pacing about the sitting room with the need to keep moving. John wants to call it “cabin fever” though it seems to be something a little deeper. Maintenance crews have been out shoveling the sidewalks and John is _itching_ to get out of the house for a while. Lonny had given them a call earlier and Sherlock was set up to play a set tonight at a new club. Mollie and Lonny are even going to sing a duet, something John was looking forward to hearing.

John is standing in the bedroom placing his revolver into his jacket and gazing out at the multi-hued sunset when he hears the telephone ring in the hallway. Sherlock’s deep voice is low but it carries throughout the house. The call doesn’t last long and afterward John notices that Sherlock seems to be a little more reserved than usual; even though they are together in almost every sense of the word, John feels it’s not his place to pry.

They bundle into one of the bright yellow taxis that have become ubiquitous about the city in the past few months, Sherlock giving the driver the name of the new club called the “Fox Trot.” He sits back against the leather and sets his violin case across his lap. The seat is narrow and they are pushed up against each other so that the case ends up partially on John’s leg. He gently moves it into a more comfortable position though Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice him until the cab stops. John reaches into his pocket and gives a few bills to the driver who gives him a small smile and a “good evening.”

Sherlock finally seems to come back from wherever he’s been and they walk in through large glass doors together. John seriously feels like he just left the farm when he feels his jaw gaping wide open. Sherlock chuckles beside him and reaches over to put two fingers under John’s chin. For just a moment John pulls his attention away from the splendor in front of him to the splendor of the sea green orbs shining with joy. Until this moment, he doesn’t think he’s ever noticed the long dark eyelashes that frame those beautiful eyes. Sherlock smiles at him before stepping out of the way.

The dance hall is _huge_ , and John doesn’t think that word does it justice. The wooden floor is polished to a high shine and white drapes encircle the walls. The stage for the band is about four steps higher than the dance floor; a massive chandelier hangs in the center of the ceiling. John turns around in a small circle on the spot taking in all of the gleaming silver accessories from the ties on the drapes to the light fixtures and even the chairs for the band. In a word the impressive hall is _glorious;_ the atmosphere is at once elegant but also full of frivolity and playfulness. He wonders how he is going to watch out for trouble when he can hardly see past the décor.

Sherlock gives him a pat on the back between his shoulder blades and moves towards the stage. John watches him put his violin case down behind the stage and take a chair. He tunes his instrument seamlessly as the other members file in from the doors. All of them except for Mollie and Lonny look just as awestruck as John; he looks at little closer and notices that the majority of their attention is on each other. No piano lines the stage, John is surprised when Andrew shuffles in carrying a square case. He steps up onto the stage and shakes hands with the others, finally putting together a beautiful silver clarinet.  Andrew gives the band members a big grin around the reed he is sucking on as his fingers fly over the parts of the instrument. He pops the reed in place and tightens the screws on the mouthpiece. Just for fun, Andrew stands up and plays his scales but adds a little flourish to the end that he finishes off with a spin, keeping both feet on the stage. When he stops, he is laughing, his brown eyes allowing the happiness he is feeling to show through even to John across the room. He claps along with the band as Andrew takes a smarmy little bow, his curly hair almost touching his toes.

John smiles to himself as he goes to find the perfect spot for scanning the crowd, somewhere with his back against a wall where he can not only see the entire crowd but also the band and the front door. There is a small door behind the stage; he believes that it only leads to a green room and probably restrooms.

People begin to arrive and it is amazing; they are all dressed to the nines in their winter finery: furs, scarves, gloves and coats all begin to be shed at the tables and chairs that surround the dance floor. The floor reflects the mellow golden light like a pond reflects the sunrise. Benjamin sets a beat and Lonny counts out “One, Two, One, Two, Three, Four…” and the band starts out on a high note. People are swinging, dancing, singing, and laughing. The whole place just vibrates with _life_.

After the first set, John has settled into a rhythm of scanning the crowd until his eyes rest on Sherlock and then back again. He completes several circuits of this before he is startled out of his revelry by a lilting, joyous melody. Mollie and Lonny have both stepped to the front of the stage and are reaching out for microphones. Mollie is so small that Lonny has to reach over and help her adjust the polished silver stick. She laughs and John hopes that everyone who cares about her can hear how wonderful that sound is, even over the music. She composes herself, snapping her fingers to the rhythm and then starts to sing.

_Sadness just makes me sigh._

_I’ve come to say goodbye._

_Allthough I go, I’ve got these farewell blues_.

_These farewell blues make me yearn,_

_That parting kiss seems to burn._

The music is still swinging, a direct contrast between the teasing, happy melody and bittersweet lyrics. Lonny’s deep bass rolls through the crowd and John notes that several women blush as he starts the next stanza.

_Farewell, dearie_

_Someday I will return_

_Dreaming of you is sweet,_

And together they sing the last line, their voices weaving about each other as if they were ivy growing together on an old stone wall.

_Someday again we’ll meet._

The crowd gives them a hearty applause as Lonny reaches out to take Mollie’s small hand in his own. They bow and Mollie leaves the stage through the door behind it. After a moment, the band changes into a new tune, this time soft and close, and the dancers pair up and whirl about the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra props to anyone who actually looks up the song Farewell Blues and can figure out why the name of the club (which is also based on several real clubs that existed at the time, though the majority of it is a figment of my imagination) is what it is.


	14. Miriam's, again

After the last applause, Sherlock and John leave the club with the rest of the band members. Eventually, they all find themselves at Miriam’s where the whiskey is being served by the owner herself. All of them except for Mollie, who seems to have disappeared after her duet with Lonny; he says that she is doing much better. Apparently they have been seeing quite a lot of each other. Everyone holds up their glasses in a toast to the lady; then they toast each other; then the last set and then they are all laughing and toasting everyone in the speakeasy, though there aren’t too many patrons in tonight.

Miriam walks in between them, giving small pats on shoulders as she takes their orders for the next round. She talks a little, inquiring about Mollie and the new club. As she moves past him, Benjamin gives her a smart little pat on the ass when she waltzes by him and the laughter just dies. Miriam shakes her rear end a little, pulls her hat down to just above her eyes and gives him the best impression of bedroom eyes that they have ever seen. She turns around in a little circle before walking saucily away to the back to get a fresh bottle, the glass beads on her sapphire dress throwing off tiny reflections of the multiple lights in the room. Benjamin lets out a whoop and Lonny claps his big hands loudly. They dissolve into a fit of giggles that only good company and great whiskey can produce.

Andrew leans over to Benjamin and grins right in his face, the hand holding his now-empty glass quite shaky. “Whoo boy, looks like John and Lonny here ain’t Miriam’s favorites anymore!” They all snort and laugh and the joking goes on for hours until there is a horrible scream from the back of the joint. John is already racing towards the storeroom with Sherlock on his heels before the rest of them even react, his glass falling and smashing against the floor that is completely ignored.  

Miriam stands in the center of the storeroom with a bottle of whiskey in her hand. She is still screaming with her mouth open wide and her eyes tightly closed when Benjamin rushes to her side. Out of instinct more than anything, he grabs her face in both hands and forces her to look at him. She finally closes her mouth and instead begins to sob. Benjamin pulls her head down so that her face is buried in his shoulder. She has not yet reopened her eyes.

“Take her out of here.” Lonny says in a growl as he points back the way they came. Benjamin gives him a nod as he gently steers Miriam back into the main room.

Finally, they can all clearly see that a man’s body is laid out on the floor on his back. There is a silver handle of a knife sticking out of his throat, clearly discernible against the scarlet of the blood welling from the fatal wound. For a brief second, John is glad that Mollie is not here to see this.

“Do any of you know this man?” He stands up and turns his head to each man as he asks the band members. Every one of them shakes their head ‘no.’

“Sherlock, does this look the same as the others?” John asks, his eyes roving over the body.

Sherlock moves to his side and kneels down to get a closer look. He nods his head. “Yes. The knife is different, but you already knew that.” Sherlock goes through the man’s pockets, looking for anything that can give a hint to his identity.

Lonny clears his throat. John looks up to see that the three of them are alone in the storeroom with the dead man. “John, we have a problem. We can’t report this murder.”

Sherlock starts to ask ‘why,’ then stops cold. Oh. For a second he considers asking if it would be a good idea to move the body; he realizes quickly that any one of them found with the dead man’s blood all over would probably be a _very_ bad idea. In a small part of his mind he wonders how he can consider all of those things so fast when he’s never really been in a situation like this before.

“Yeah, that’s right. I do have someone I can call, though, who won’t ask too many questions. Sherlock stay here with the body, I’ll be right back.”

John hotfoots it out of the building towards the precinct, which is quite ironically only a block away. He’s not sure who is going to be on duty at this hour, but he’s hoping that Arnie is there. His friend Roger is a wonderful guy, too, a bit too straight-laced for this type of thing, however. He will tell him, though, if he has to. He sighs as he pushes open the door. He stops in front of the big desk, looking up at the clock. Five-thirty; in a way, that’s good. It means the morning shift that starts at six hasn’t come on yet. An officer shuffles up to the desk from the back of the room, pulling up his zipper. Any other time, John thinks that would be funny; not today. He waits impatiently for the cop to get to him, which seems to be taking an awfully long time.

When he finally saunters up to the desk and looks at John as if completely uninterested as to why someone would willingly walk into a police station in Chicago at five-thirty in the morning, John really fights back his overwhelming desire to cuff this idiot about the ears with something big and heavy. For a second, his eyes go to the heavy baton dangling at the officer’s side. Yes, that would do it. The cop clears his throat and starts to open his mouth. To John it seems like it is taking way too many hours.

“Good morning. Are either Arnie Johnson or Roger Bowman in this morning?” John asks with much more politeness than he feels.

“Hang on.” The officer reaches under the desk and pulls out a large pad. He runs his finger down the list until he spots Arnie’s name at the same time John does. “Looks like Officer Johnson is on until seven. He’s down the corner of…”

John cuts the man off with a curt answer of some sort as he pushes open the door. Arnie’s usual beat is up near where Mollie’s place is. He jogs lightly down the sidewalk until he finds his friend.

“Arnie! Arnie!” He shouts as he turns a corner. Arnie’s back is to him. He has one hand against a light post and he’s facing out towards the city. He spins around casually at the sound of John’s voice. John finds it a little strange that his friend doesn’t even question his appearance on his beat so early in the morning. John explains the situation quickly. Arnie doesn’t say anything, merely nods as John leads him back to Miriam’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short, it was meant to be the end of the last chapter, but somehow I missed it when I copied and pasted. Thank you all for the kind words and the kudos!


	15. Closer

It turns out that Arnie doesn’t ask very many questions _at all_. Sherlock and John are home by eight o’clock, the body of Tim Fields is on its way to the morgue, and Arnie says that he is going to take care of the paperwork. Apparently, he is going to report that he came across the body at the end of his shift, which is basically the truth. He has to account for John showing up at the station, though he thinks that will be easy enough. He doesn’t want anyone in trouble; these days, the cops spend as much time at the speakeasies as everyone else does. In that regard, Arnie isn’t any more or less special than the next person. It is a strange time.

At John’s brownstone, he is scrambling eggs and frying a few strips of bacon. Sherlock is camped out on the sofa, hovering between exhaustion and excitement. His eyes are closed and he’s got his arms crossed over his chest. He is still wearing his suit trousers, though his chest and feet are bare. He seems completely unaware that his toes are moving against the arm of the couch.

“It was the same killer, I am certain.” Sherlock does not raise his voice; John can hear him loud-and-clear in the kitchen. He doesn’t reply, instead making a noncommittal noise so that Sherlock will keep talking.

 “While you were out, I was able to look very closely at the wound and it seems that the knife was handled in exactly the same manner as the first two. We need to find out about Tim Fields: who he was, what he did…that kind of thing.”

John thought to himself _we_? He divides the eggs and bacon onto two plates and grabs a pair of forks before carrying it all into the living room. He stands next to the sofa and lifts on leg to nudge at Sherlock with his bare toes. Sherlock grunts a little but obliges John by sitting up. John hands him his plate and fork. Sherlock just looks at his breakfast like it’s going to start jumping about the plate and performing the Charleston.

John gives him another nudge, this time with his shoulder. “Come on. Eat. Then we can go to bed. There’s no gig tonight, so we can take it easy.” John knows its cliché but he gives his lover a flirty wink anyway. Sherlock grumbles as he shovels food into his mouth. John gives him a fleeting half-smile of thanks, and then considers how strange it is that _he_ is getting someone else to eat. For a few seconds he allows himself to remember wallowing in his own misery when things were bad, like _after_ …John shakes his head, hoping that Sherlock hasn’t noticed.

Sherlock will not be put off that easily. “What is going on in your head, John?”

John gives a sad chuckle, mostly to himself. He finishes the last few bites of his breakfast before speaking. Sherlock watches him as he finishes his own. John sighs. “The first time you saw me, I was down pretty low, Sherlock.” John looks over and his breath is almost taken away by the intense green stare. He doesn’t ever have to wonder if Sherlock’s paying attention when he’s looking through him that way. “It wasn’t the lowest I’ve ever been, though.”

“And you really don’t want to talk about it on a night with no sleep?”

“Right.” John leans back against the sofa as he begins to feel all the events from the past day piling up on his shoulders. He considers that he should give up anything to do with this case. It seems like it’s never going to end.

“It will end, eventually, John.” John’s eyes fly open as Sherlock’s words cut through his thought like a hot knife through butter. “Wow.”

Sherlock offers a little grin of his own which tries desperately to be mischievous; of course the whole effect is spoiled by his heavy eyelids. “You are tired; we should get some rest and then maybe work on not getting any rest.”

John laughs as he gathers the dishes. He listens as Sherlock heads off to the bedroom, then considers the dishes then the bedroom: his head feels like its on a swivel. He finally gives up the dishes as a bad job and steps into the bedroom. Sherlock is already asleep, lanky body flat on his front, giving John a really nice view of a rather nice bare ass. John pushes the other man up farther into the bed and covers him with a blanket before climbing into the other side. He rolls over, softly caressing Sherlock’s naked back a few times, getting a couple of soft little grunts for his effort. As the mid-morning sunlight wraps around them like a golden blanket, John’s eyes flutter shut and his breathing moves in time to his lover’s.

~o~

Several hours later as Sherlock wakens slowly, he notes how the golden sun that had streaming through the bedroom window has changed to a rather grumpy steel grey. He stretches as he rolls over onto his back, catching the heavy thrumming of rain against the roof. The sheet beneath him is warm and comforting; soft against his bare skin. He rubs at his eyes with both hands and yawns, thinking it’s a good thing he doesn’t have a gig tonight because the last thing he feels like doing is moving any farther from this bed than the bathroom.

He turns towards John, who is starting to wake up, and reaches out with an index finger, lightly tracing the line of John’s jaw. The stubble there catches a little on his skin and John’s eyes open. Sherlock leans in closer, gently touching John’s lips with his own. One of John’s hands is against Sherlock’s nape, reeling him in as if he can never get enough. It is a lazy, meandering kiss of two people soaking in each other’s presence; a joy of being together; a kiss that is beginning to heal old wounds and soothe old scars. It’s good and sweet, calling out to an older part of both minds.

Sherlock can hear the joyous sounds of the jazz that runs through his head all the time, even when he is using this new ability that he’s found. He wonders if the two things will cancel each other out, though for now he is more than happy to just enjoy the ride. He presses his lean, bare chest against John, feeling his much more muscular frame through the blanket. John’s arousal is hard and hot against Sherlock’s thigh, even through the layer of cloth. Sherlock rolls his hips and John lets out a gasp in between their mouths. John’s fingers dig into Sherlock’s shoulders and between them they manage to remove the blanket. They rock into each other, each thrust gaining more ground, each man searching for more and more wondrous friction. By the time they both reach their climax, they are gasping for air, lips touching, but mouths open, foreheads touching. Sherlock pulls his head back enough to drop it to John’s chest. They remain that way for some minutes getting their breath back. Finally, Sherlock rolls off of John and says very simply: “Shower.” John nods his head as Sherlock climbs out of the bed. Without speaking, they each grab a corner of the sheet and pull it to the floor. John picks it up and rolls it into a big ball before tossing it into the corner. After they shower, he’ll remake the bed and after that going anywhere until the next morning. It is a good plan, anyway.

~o~

“John!” There’s a loud, frantic voice outside. John sits up, pushing the blanket away from his body and encountering a hard lump. Sherlock’s head is pretty much buried against John’s chest. John pats the mass of wildly luxurious curls. “Sherlock. You need to get up or move. Someone’s calling from outside.”

Sherlock opens one eye and looks towards the window that they opened part way a few hours ago. He enjoys the clean smell of the rain and it helped lull them back to sleep.  

“Sherlock! John!” The voice called again, this time sounding more frantic.

“Coming!” John shouts as he climbs out of bed. He is sore and still sleepy warm, though some rational part of him knows it’s time to get up and start another day. There’s a loud thud from the other side of the bed as Sherlock hits the floor on his bum because the blanket and sheets were twisted around his feet.

“Blast and damn!” Sherlock kicks his feet against the floor to untangle them.

John can’t help but laugh. When Sherlock turns on that English accent he never knows whether he should just melt at the knees or giggle. Well, his knees are too sore at this point to do anything more than walk, so he just giggles. Sherlock glares at him from underneath sleepy-sweaty fringe, his green eyes full of ice that is melting, oh so quickly. His mouth does this funny half-scowl, half-smile thing that almost has John rolling in laughter.

The laughter is short-lived.

“John! Sherlock!” The voice outside is now beginning to falter. John rushes about the bedroom, grabbing his clothes and literally walking into his trousers as he heads to the front door. Sherlock sits on the floor, rubbing his wounded pride, watching John walk away from him.

John opens the door to find a very distraught Andrew on his front porch. He is twirling a hat in his long pianist’s fingers, his head tilted towards his feet. His cream-colored button-down shirt has been hastily buttoned and it hangs unevenly about his chest and arms. He is not wearing a coat; rain water is dripping from the hat brim. When he meets John’s eyes, John steps back and opens the door wider, beckoning him to come in. Andrew steps into the living room, his breath hitching with the quiet sobs that are wracking his shoulders. Sherlock enters the room and Andrew holds out both hands towards him. Sherlock takes them both and notes that the bright shine of joy has gone out of Andrew’s amber eyes as if it’s been extinguished.  John watches as Sherlock pulls Andrew into a hug, his long arms around the slightly-smaller man’s shoulders. Andrew continues to sob for several seconds before gaining control. He pulls away from Sherlock and takes a deep breath.

“It’s Lonny. He’s been stabbed same as the others.” It’s all Andrew can get out before his knees start to tremble. John grabs him around his waist and pushes him towards the sofa where he collapses in a heap.


	16. The Final Stanza

By the time Sherlock and John, with Andrew in tow, reach the club, there are already several policeman standing around the body, all of them facing outward. Sherlock pushes his way between two of them without saying anything. The officers draw back as if to stop him; he is already crouched down beside it. He is quickly taking in the wound _which is still gushing blood_. He stands up, grabbing the belt of the officer nearest to him.

“This man is still alive!” Sherlock shouts as he grabs the belt of the officer nearest him, pulling himself up from the ground in one smooth movement. John is watching everything. Andrew pushes past him and drops to his knees next to Lonny, a nonsense stream of words rushing out of his mouth. Sherlock stands and surveys the growing crowd around them.

Suddenly, in Sherlock’s mind, every sound is rendered mute; movement stops and everything freezes in place. He experiences a feeling of clarity that compares to nothing else in his life, except for perhaps the first day he set eyes on John. His eyes scan the crowd, taking in every single detail. Most of the people he passes over quickly—there is one, however. Without any warning, Sherlock is running towards the man in the grey suit that is turning away from the crowd. Sherlock is gaining on him, not hearing John’s cry behind him. He completely misses the sound of two officers tailing behind him.

Sherlock races after the man who is starting to falter. Just as they hit an intersection, Sherlock tackles him. A silver knife flashes in the strengthening rays of the morning sunlight. An arm wrapped in blue cloth grabs the man’s arm, stopping the blade in midflight. Sherlock steps back as the other officer clutches the man’s other arm in the midst of pulling it behind his back. John is not far behind and stops just beside Sherlock, bending at the waist and breathing heavily. He cautiously steps towards the man who is taller by almost a head but much more slender in build. His skin is brown and his eyes remind John of someone he has seen before…

“Who are you?” John asks him, his voice almost a growl.

“ _I ain’t talking to you, fucking fag_.” The man screams and attempts to fight against the two officers. The one on his right pulls his baton out of its holster. The man rolls his eyes at the sight of it, though he does finally stand still. He hangs between the two officers, his head drooping.

“He asked you: who are you?”  Sherlock moves in close to the man, forcing him to look up.

“You destroyed my sister! She shoulda stayed home instead of becoming a….” he struggles against the policemen again; truly there is nowhere for him to go. Sherlock is a solid wall of anger, his eyes narrowed against what he knows the man is going to say next. He grips the shorter man’s chin in one hand and gets right into his face.

“Do not even _dare_ say anything about my _friend_.” Sherlock’s arm is swinging back as if to slap the man when it is caught in midair by John. Sherlock turns to look at him and John pulls back. Sherlock steps away from Mollie’s brother, his face a mask of utter disgust.

They leave the scene to return to the club. Lonny has been taken to the hospital and there is very little left to do. John tells Sherlock that they can follow up with the police the next day as they head home. John feels like he’s been gone the whole day, though as he glances at the clock on the wall as he steps through the door, he is astounded to see that just over two hours have passed.

~o~

The next day they are standing side-by-side next to Lonny’s hospital bed. His neck is wrapped in white gauze that is just tinged with pink. He cannot talk much above a hoarse whisper, though he has made it clear that he wants to know what happened and who the man was who stabbed him. Mollie sits in a chair on the other side of the bed, holding Lonny’s big hand in both of her own. Her eyes are red-rimmed from crying, though the color is clear.

“I saw the drop of blood on his suit jacket. It just stood out to me.” Sherlock holds his hands out, palms up, to the room at large. John knows that he is still learning to use this new gift that he has. In John’s mind it’s a gift, for want of a better way to describe it. He has taken Sherlock through every step of the morning several times and he cannot help but be amazed. Lonny doesn’t shake his head, though he grimaces or smiles in all of the right places and makes a small humming noise.

A knock on the frame of the open door interrupts all of them. Andrew and Aaron step in and shake hands with Sherlock and John. Lonny gives them both a weary smile. Andrew turns to Sherlock, reaching up to put a hand on the Englishman’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Sherlock.” Sherlock nods his head in welcome. “We just spoke with Arnie and he told us that Matthew admitted to stabbing the other victims.” Sherlock nods again; he had assumed as much, though had held back for fear that he had been wrong. He closes his eyes as Mollie begins to weep. Lonny reaches over with his other hand and pulls her closer to his side. They leave the room but Sherlock is not seeing the drab hospital walls: instead he is seeing all of the similar details between each of the crime scenes. It is a heady feeling. John looks up to him as they exit the hospital, laying his hand against Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock stops in place and bends toward John, their lips meeting in a softly reassuring kiss.

As they pull away from each other, John whispers: “You are amazing.” As they continue down the sidewalk, shoulders brushing, Sherlock considers that a whole new world of possibilities has opened to him…but most importantly to _them_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to every single person who has taken the time to read my story--whether you commented, left kudos, or just stopped by to see what it was all about! I almost gave up on this one because I was afraid the ending was too trite. I hope it was believable. Thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> I can no longer offer any excuses. Nope. None at all.  
> Let me mention here that if you are interested in hearing a jazz violin, look up a gentleman by the name of Venuti. In the early 1920s, they were pioneers in the use of guitar and violin as jazz instruments. It's pretty awesome and there are lots of recordings on the u tube. My inspiration is especially drawn from the pieces between 1924 and 1926.


End file.
